


Bad Company

by IoanNemos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst, Blood, Bobby only shows up in the last chapter, Gen, I'm not sure the violence falls under 'graphic' but better safe than sorry, Lots of Angst, Pervasive bad language, listen i swear i'm working on the sequel but please do not hold your breath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3953260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IoanNemos/pseuds/IoanNemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU post 4.06ish ::: Everything changes (again) for amnesiac Dean Barrow after the stranger who half-crashed into his garage turns out to be his self-destructing, secret-keeping younger brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this to ff dotnet, but I wanted more feedback. (Okay, okay, also more reviews.) As per your average artistic temperament, I kind of hate this now, but I also love it, at least half because it's the first story of this length that I've finished. Yay for finishing!
> 
> ... ::cough:: yeah. Anyway. I hope you enjoy. Leave feedback!

**He woke up with a sense of impending doom.** Or something. Maybe, he reflected as he showered, dressed, and added a generous helping of blueberries to his oatmeal, maybe it was just indigestion. Or a bug. Or allergies. It was getting to be that time of year again. So by the time he left for work, Dean Barrow had mostly buried the odd feeling that hovered coldly in the pit of his stomach.

Jason was already at the garage by the time he got there, with the radio tuned to some stupid electro-pop music. He figured the lanky teen had changed it just to pull his chain, a hypothesis confirmed by an almost-hidden smirk as he clicked it back to his favorite classic rock station. “Ancient history,” Jason complained, head bobbing to AC/DC nevertheless.

“You just don’t know good music when you hear it,” Dean shot back, wiping down his tools. “Hey, you wanna clean up your mess over there? Margaret’s coming over with her Bug later, remember?” He grinned, watching Jason scramble to straighten up his station. Margaret, as dark-skinned as Jason was never-sees-the-sun pale, was also seventeen and, Dean suspected, as smitten with Jason as Jason was with her. Both were terrible flirts, though, and one of these days Dean was pretty sure he was going to have to step in and help both of them.

Margaret came in with her Bug a half hour early, weakly protesting that she was _sure_ Jason had said 9, not 9:30. Dean all but shoved Jason at her and looked up from sorting out a crate of spare parts to see them standing just a _little_ too close to each other. He grinned again and pretended not to notice when Margaret stole a kiss.

A stranger pulled in after lunch, needing a new tire. He leaned over the hood as Dean filled out the paperwork and said, “Cute little place you got here.” His tone said ‘I didn’t know Arizona had backwater towns,’ and not in a charmed way. “What’s the population? 400?”

“401,” Dean said lightly, adding $10 to the total. “Mayor just had a baby. There you go. Sign there.”

“Do you take credit card?”

Dean wished he’d added $20. “You’re in the back country, not back in time. Over here by the cash register.”

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, though he found himself at loose ends. The feeling in his gut resurfaced, that cold warning that something was on the horizon, something bad. At one point he came to himself to realize he’d been staring down the road for at least five minutes. The two-pump gas station/convenience store was the only inhabited shop between him and the edge of town, and he could follow the two-lane highway past it for a couple miles before it twisted out of sight.

He let Jason go home at 4 when no one else came and decided against going home in favor of tinkering with his truck. It was too quiet at home, and Heather was out of town. He shied away from thinking about her homecoming very much: they’d had a Talk before she left, about commitments and individual effort in making a relationship work. He’d thought they were dating; she didn’t. He didn’t know whether to press his point or hold what he had.

The uneven growl and rattle of a car in bad shape being poorly driven woke him from his unpleasant thoughts. He walked over to the open garage door just in time to see a sleek, black mid-60s Chevy Impala swerve back onto the right side of the road before veering toward the garage. He backed up quickly as the Impala screeched to a cockeyed halt halfway through the doorway. There was a moment of almost-silence, the engine ticking and his pounding heart the only things he could hear. Then his anger took over and he marched toward the driver’s door. “What the hell, man, are you drunk?” he demanded loudly.

The door opened and the driver grabbed the top of it to lever himself out of the car. He swayed once upright, all 6’something of him, then turned to look at Dean.

Dean’s heart stopped for a long moment.

The left side of the guy’s face was partially obscured by almost shoulder-length brown hair and the sheet of blood it was stuck in. His breath came in ragged huffs and he stared at Dean for several seconds without really seeing him. His white dress shirt was spattered with blood all over, and the left leg of his black dress pants gleamed and clung wetly. Finally his eyes focused on Dean, and his lips parted a little bit more while his eyes widened, as if he recognized him. He laughed once, loudly and incredulously, before his eyes rolled back and he dropped.

Dean caught him before he hit the concrete floor. After a moment of stunned realization of what had just happened, he laid the stranger onto the floor carefully and then ran for the phone.

It didn’t occur to him until after he’d hung up that he didn’t have the sense of foreboding anymore.

* * *

Dr. Janna McCall came back out of the examination room and pulled up short when saw the number of people crowded into the tiny waiting room. “Okay, uh, can we clear the room a little? How about, um, Louis, Abby, George, and Dean.” There were groans, mostly good-natured; between the sheriff, Louis, and the town’s news reporter, George, not to mention gossip, most of the gawkers figured they’d know most of the story by the next morning at the latest.

Mayor Abigail Hanson accepted Dean’s hand up. “Thanks, dear,” she huffed, hand on her stomach. At the doctor’s narrowing eyes, she raised her other hand in surrender. “I’ve _been_ laying down, Janna. But you can’t expect me to stay home when a bloody stranger drives into town to collapse in my favorite mechanic’s garage.”

“How injured?” Louis asked.

Janna hesitated, then said, “Through-and-through gunshot in his left shoulder, significant laceration to the face, and a severe concussion. There are other minor cuts, scrapes, contusions-- Looks like he was in a hell of a fight. He’s lost a lot of blood, obviously, but that will be the easiest thing to fix.”

“He awake?”

“No. With a concussion that severe, he may be out for a while. Even if he does wake up, there may be amnesia or other brain damage. It’s impossible to tell at this point.” She anticipated Louis’ next question and pulled a clear plastic bag from the pocket of her white coat. “Here’s his wallet. According to his driver’s license his name’s Sam Parker. Address is in Dallas, Texas.”

George whistled. “Long way from home.”

“No photos,” Janna continued, sounding a bit sad. “No credit cards, some cash, but no business cards or anything to say who he works for. No wedding ring. No phone, either.”

Louis shuffled the few bagged items thoughtfully. “I’ll make some calls, see if we can figure out who he works for and what he’s doing here with a bullet hole in him.”

* * *

“Here we are,” Dean said, feeling a little bit self-conscious. Why, he couldn’t quite nail down: sure, the guy had shown up in a suit, but right now he was in a large hoodie and jeans that had been in the duffel in the back seat of his car, both of which were a little too big for him.

Right now he stared at Dean’s one-storey green-sided house with a level of interest that Dean thought it might not deserve. “Nice.” His voice still had a rasp to it, a roughness that made Dean wince whenever he heard it: it sounded painful.

Everything this dude did looked painful; he seemed to think being shot in the shoulder, seventeen stitches in his scalp, a concussion, and amnesia were nothing, really, and acted accordingly. Maybe a line appeared between his eyes, or the side of his mouth quirked, but for the most part everything seemed to just bounce off his mild yet implacable mien. He’d been politely impatient to leave the clinic, politely insistent that he didn’t remember anything, and politely uncomfortable with the idea of staying with Dean Barrow until the doctor cleared him to drive.

“Uh, is there a motel or somewhere…?” he’d tried.

“It’s Dean or me,” Janna had told him flatly, and that was the end of it.

Dean still wasn’t really sure why he’d volunteered. “He could stay with me,” he’d heard himself say. Janna and Louis had looked at him in surprise. “Jason can run the garage, I have the room, Heather’s out of town for the next two weeks…” Or maybe he did. “I know it’s weird, but, well, I know what it’s like.”

The first thing Dean remembered was walking down the side of the highway just before dawn, head aching but not bleeding, in jeans and a green t-shirt and no wallet, no ID, no clue who he was. Later, when he took off his shirt for Janna to examine him, they found numerous odd scars, a strange pentagram-esque tattoo over his heart, and DEAN BARROW written on the inside back collar of the t-shirt in a bleeding black pen. “What am I, six?” Dean had muttered, a little unnerved.

A name search had come up with a Brazilian prime minister and no missing persons report. After about a week of trying things he realized he knew how to fix cars. The owner of the town’s garage had been hovering on the edge of retirement for the past ten years, so when he saw Dean’s care and experience with engines, he promptly gave Dean the job of manager and started working on the rock garden he’d planned.

The garage was practically Dean’s now, with tools and tool benches set up the way he wanted them, one of the hydraulic lifts fixed, the outside repainted a professional greyish-blue, and the paperwork in the office completely reorganized.

The garage brought in enough work to pay for his tiny one bedroom, one bathroom house. The generosity of neighbors, coupled with some careful spending, meant the place was pretty well furnished now. Nice TV, queen-sized bed, and a fairly comfortable couch that he would be sleeping on.

“It’s home,” Dean said with a shrug.

Sam swallowed roughly, then started to open his door.

“Holy shit, dude.” Dean clambered out of the truck and hurried over to the other side. “I swear to God if you jump down--”

Sam pressed his lips together but waited until Dean came around to lean on the offered arm. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure you are.” Dean pulled the duffel bag out of the back and the plastic bag containing Sam’s medication and what was almost a book of instructions, then led the way to the front porch. “Watch that step, it kind of wobbles.”

“Thanks.”

Dean dropped his keys onto the ceramic cat-shaped bowl his neighbor had given him for that purpose (she was too sweet and came over too often for it to… disappear) and tossed the duffel bag onto the couch. “Kitchen’s to the left, bathroom’s at the end of the hall, and the bedroom is the other door down there.”

Sam looked around slowly, an unreadable expression on his face. “Cozy.”

He shrugged, not sure if he should be offended. “You don’t happen to remember any favorite foods, do you? Or, uh, food allergies?”

Sam pulled a chair away from the small table that divided the kitchen from the living room and settled into it heavily. “Uh, nothing comes to mind. Sorry.” He rubbed a hand over his face and grimaced at the stubble. “You got a razor?”

* * *

“You’re going to work tomorrow, right?” Sam mumbled, only half-watching the baseball game.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure the doctor--”

Sam sighed, and stood slowly. “I’m going to bed. You should go to work tomorrow.”

Dean stood too, watching to see if he needed any help. “You hit your head pretty hard--”

“So check on me at noon.” Sam smiled weakly. “Dude, I’m just gonna be sleeping. Wake me up at noon, make sure I took my pain pills, make sure I know where I am, let me sleep again.”

* * *

“That should be all right,” Janna said a little doubtfully the next morning. “Rest is very important for recovery, but he should be okay until noon.”

“Okay, thanks Janna.”

“He hasn’t remembered anything, has he?”

“Not that he’s told me.”

Janna sighed heavily. “Damn. One of these days I’m going to pull you in to get a picture of that tattoo. I want to know what it means.”

“What does my tattoo have to do with--?”

“Sam has the same tattoo.”

Dean blinked. “He does, huh?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...
> 
> That whole 'psychotically irrationally erotically codependent' thing? I go for all but the erotic part.
> 
> Translation: they do get cuddly, and that's it.

**“Dean?”**

Dean froze, hand hovering over his key holder. For a moment he stood with his door half open and one foot almost off the ground, hearing the blood rush in his ears, and feeling like his head was about to explode. The moment passed and he dropped the keys. They clattered into the key holder and he inhaled sharply, rubbing his eyes. The pressure behind his eyes eased but didn’t disappear. _What the hell was that?_ “Yeah, it’s me,” he called, hoping his voice didn’t shake, hoping whatever had just happened never happened again.

He heard the familiar creaks of the floorboards to one side of his bed, then a loud multi-part thump and a muffled cry of pain. “Dean!”

“Crazy son of a bitch…” Dean muttered, hurrying into the bedroom. The voice had been different, somehow; it was definitely Sam, but it sounded much less detached, almost sounded… younger. He opened the door to find 6’something of uncoordinated, freaking out Sam. He was struggling to untangle his legs from the covers and kept forgetting his shoulder was injured. “Sam, stop it! You’re gonna--”

Sam looked up at him, hazel eyes wide and wet and unfocused. His hair was mussed and he cradled his arm against his chest, looking baffled and hurt. Then he moved it again and looked down at it in confusion as he whimpered loudly, a wordless sound like an injured animal.

Dean felt almost sick. _Well, he’s out of it. Fever? Pain pills? Concussion? Dammit, I’m not ready for this. The hell happened, you were fine at noon._ “Sam, stop moving your shoulder. You got shot, remember?”

“Shot?” echoed Sam, looking up at him again. “Why?”

“I dunno.” Dean knelt and untangled the miles of bony, non-resistent legs. “There you go.” He reached over and put a hand on Sam’s forehead. Before he even touched the skin he felt the heat. “Ah, dammit. You’re burning up.”

Sam leaned into his palm, tears escaping when he closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Dean paused, then slid his hand up to comb back the unruly bangs. “What for? C’mon, back into bed.” He took Sam’s good elbow, snagged a belt loop in the other hand, and pulled.

Sam sorted out his legs slowly, as if drunk, then sat down on the bed. He wavered a moment, then slumped over his knees and put his face in his good hand. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“What for?” Dean repeated. “Don’t fall asleep, let me get your meds.” He was across the room double checking dosages when Sam mumbled something. “What?”

“I said I shouldn’t have come. Stupid. Shouldn’t… It works, so… Why… If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Sam stared dully at the pills in Dean’s hand, then looked up apologetically into Dean’s face. “I’m sorry. It was stupid. And… selfish. I thought I was dead, so… I guess I kept thinking, one last time. Or maybe I just…”

“Dude.” Dean offered the pills more emphatically. “Less talking, more swallowing.”

“Okay.” Sam grabbed clumsily at Dean’s hand.

“Whoa, there. Serious coordination issues. New plan. Open your mouth.” Sam obeyed and Dean tipped the medicine inside, following up with the glass of water. Sam made a bid for the glass but let his hand be pushed away without a fight. “Don’t choke.”

Sam swallowed with a little difficulty, then grabbed Dean’s hand. “I’m really sorry, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean said. Sam’s fingers dug into his palm and he debated ending the weirdness or waiting until Sam was knocked out by the sleeping pill.

“I’ll leave soon. I don’t… It’s working, so… But, go to school, okay? You’re really smart.” Sam blinked heavily, then again. “Really smart,” he mumbled, his grip on Dean’s hand loosening. He didn’t seem to notice when Dean pulled his hand back. He lay back slowly. “Don’t waste it. It doesn’t… Don’t worry about… You can be smart. It’s okay. Okay?”

“Okey-dokey,” Dean said, turning away and shaking out the blanket Sam had brought with him to the floor.

“Dad doesn’t have to know.”

Dean turned so fast the room tilted. “What?”

Sam was out.

* * *

The next few days were intolerable. Sam battled a fever that never got really dangerously high, but kept him in a dazed fog when conscious and in nightmares when not.

Dean didn’t want to know what he was dreaming about. Sam would thrash and freeze by turns, or press his hands to his head, or writhe, arching his back and then collapsing again, crying out in pain from his shoulder, speaking sentences that were either fragmented English or that strange sleep language that sounds creepily like words but isn’t.

“Come back!” he called frequently. “No, come back! Dean!”

He shouted for Dean a lot for someone he’d met a week ago. “Dean, help!” and “Dean, come back!” were among the most oft-spoken phrases. “Essoramous tea” was another favorite, as was “I’ll fix it.”

Dean wasn’t sure what to make of it all. It didn’t happen every time, but every once in a while when Sam would call for him that weird almost-blackout thing would happen again. Everything would slow down as a bomb went off in the back of his brain, like a lightless explosion, and then he would come back to himself with the beginnings of a headache and no explanation for why.

Nor could he explain the way that Sam seemed to depend on him.

“Dean, come back!” he would call, and then, eyes still shut, thrash an arm out to grip a handful of blanket that he kept kicking off. “Come back, come back… No, no no, come back. Dean?”

And Dean would recover from another bomb going off in the back of his brain and say as calmly and rationally as he could manage, “I’m here, Sam, I didn’t leave.”

Early on the morning of the third day he finally came to the end of his rope and almost shouted, “Dammit, Sam, I didn’t leave! Man up!”

Sam stiffened, then collapsed into tears, disappearing under the covers. “I did,” he almost sobbed. “I did. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, for f--” Dean rubbed his hands over his face, then leaned over to tug at the blanket. “Sam, calm down.”

“I shouldn’t… have left,” Sam sobbed. “Oh God, why did I… And then it all went to hell again. I should have known. I shouldn’t have left. God, Dean, I miss you so much.”

Dean froze. “What did you say?”

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I left. It wasn’t your fault.” Sam emerged from the blankets, breath hitching, eyes and nose streaming. He sniffed deeply and wiped his sleeve over his face, whimpering when he jostled his shoulder. “Come back?” he pleaded, voice cracking. “Please come back, Dean. I miss you. God, I can’t… I don’t know… I’m trying, but… I can’t, I can’t, I _can’t_.” His voice broke completely on the last word, and he ground his teeth while he sobbed into the pillow. “I can’t do it, I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough, I can’t do it alone. I miss you. I _miss_ you. I can’t do it alone.”

Dean felt his head throbbing, felt like there was something he should be doing, but he couldn’t think of it, couldn’t think--

“I can’t do it alone. I can’t do it alone. Don’t leave me alone. I’m not strong enough. I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_ , I can’t do it alone, I’m not strong enough.” He slammed a fist into the pillow, then turned his face away, choking on his sobs.

Dean felt as if his mind was separated from his body. While his mind took a hike he knelt on the edge of the bed and his hand reached out of its own accord and started to stroke Sam’s hair. His fingers snagged as they carded through the mess of unwashed and unbrushed hair, but he didn’t stop. It was calming, somehow, the repetitious movement soothing the howling black hole in his skull.

Sam seemed to appreciate it too, his wild sobs slowing and then devolving into half-hearted hiccups. He lay with his injured arm limply at his side and his other hand slowly relaxing around a white-knuckled handful of pillow.

Dean’s hand deemed Sam’s hair to be good enough and moved downward to massage his still-tense neck. He worked in little circles, pressing down with his fingertips firmly but gently. Once that was relaxed, he started working across the broad shoulders, extra careful where gauze was still taped to a healing shoulder. The tension relaxed, then returned as Sam started to shake.

“Sam?” It felt like someone else was using his voice.

Sam raised himself onto his good arm, weeping, lips pressed together as if to keep himself quiet. Without a word he turned to Dean and just looked at him for a long moment, hazel eyes tortured, confused… There was a sort of hunger in them, too. Not a physical hunger, easily solved with tomato-rice soup or toast; this looked like the hunger of a drowning man when he sees a boat. He shuffled forward awkwardly, still silent, then wrapped his arm around Dean’s waist and pulled himself forward. He sat up, practically in Dean’s lap, then leaned against him, head in the hollow of Dean’s shoulder, curling his good arm across Dean’s back to grab a fistful of shirt and cradling his other arm against his chest.

After a long moment, Dean’s arms wrapped around Sam as if by themselves. At the touch Sam melted even further into him, sniffling. Warm teardrops fell onto Dean’s arm and he shifted his grip until his hand was cupped around the back of Sam’s head, fingers threading into his hair.

Sam stayed awake, silently weeping, long past when Dean thought he should have fallen asleep.

* * *

“We’re brothers.” The words were repeated almost robotically, like someone had taken over his voicebox.

Sam nodded wordlessly from the corner of the couch, only glancing up for microseconds before looking at his knees again.

Dean rubbed his hands over his face, feeling numb. “Well. That would explain the, uh, crying out in the night.” Sam grimaced but nodded again. “And the startled look when you got here. And the, uh, familiarity.” Anger started to glow warm in the pit of his stomach. “So, why the fake amnesia?”

“Because… we…” Sam massaged the bridge of his nose. Dean was about to interject when Sam finished in a rush, “Because it’s _way_ more complicated than it seems.”

“More complicated?” Dean laughed harshly. Sam winced. “More complicated than you getting shot, than you almost crashing into my garage? More complicated than me wandering down the road, nothing but the shirt on my back-- Are you the one who put that name on the back of my shirt? And hey, if we’re brothers, why don’t we have the same last name?”

“We do. It isn’t Barrow or Parker.” Sam smirked for a moment and then it disappeared as if it had never existed. “They’re, uh, pseudonyms. Your first name is Dean, though. And mine is Sam. Our last name is Winchester.”

“Well, that explains everything--”

Sam exhaled sharply and looked up, guilt taking a backseat to irritation. “I’m trying to figure out if I should explain at all. Like I said, it’s complicated, and…” The guilt came back full force. “You’ve got a life here,” he muttered. “It’s… normal.”

There was something about the way he said ‘normal’, something that implied disdain and jealousy, confusion and wonder. Like he hated it, maybe because he envied it. Like it was a foreign land he’d dreamed about and now stood within sight of, and doubted in the face of its reality.

“Now I’m not sure if I wanna know.” ‘Complicated,’ pseudonyms, normalcy both a foreign concept and something to be desired… “Let me ask you something. The scars, are those from…?” Dean stopped, not sure what to theorize.

“They’re from… what we--” Sam pulled up, corrected himself forcefully, “--what _I_ do, yes. So’s the tattoo.”

“We’re not in a cult or something--?”

Sam snorted, then as something sank in started to laugh. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. “Maybe,” he wheezed. “Maybe we are. Maybe I am,” he amended, laughter dying quickly. “Maybe it is. I never thought of it that way, but… yeah, I guess you could call it a cult.” He snorted again, this time in derision. “In ’til you die. That is pretty cultish. So yeah,” he ended, looking up at Dean with a strange expression on his face, “basically you’ve escaped a dangerous cult and the only price was your memory. Could have been a lot worse.” He looked back down at his knees, suddenly morose. “Hell, even if you--” He cut himself off and cleared his throat.

 _Basically a cult. All right then._ “Okay.” Dean suddenly thought of tears, haunted fevered eyes, a repeated self-flagellation of ‘ _I can’t do it alone, I’m not strong enough, I miss you._ ’ ‘ _Come back._ ’ ‘ _I’m sorry._ ’ “What were you so sorry for?”

Sam cringed, a full-bodied action, but his voice, if low, was steady enough when he said, “Your amnesia. I… I was responsible. I didn’t do it,” he added quickly, “but I wasn’t there when it happened. If I’d been there…” He swallowed, resumed hollowly, “maybe I could have stopped it.”

“Okay,” Dean said again, less a statement of things how they were, more a verbal signal that information was being assimilated. The anger was glowing hotter. There were so many things he could sense Sam wasn’t telling him, so many gaps in the story. But he was also keenly aware that-- well, if they were brothers, that would make for a long story.

He wanted to hear it, though. He wanted to hear it so badly that for a moment he thought he might cry. He wanted to make coffee, sit in the other corner of the couch, and just listen to Sam relate it, unfold their own private mythos, talk about their parents, first jobs, whatever it was they did together, lay it out piece by piece in his quiet, measured voice. The hollowness in the pit of Dean’s stomach, the sense of being different, of being the odd one out-- everyone relays their favorite childhood food and an awkward silence falls when he enters the room. First kisses silently speculated upon in the dark, with no answers forthcoming. The restlessness in his bones when he stands on his front porch, awake before dawn for no earthly reason, feeling like there’s somewhere he’s supposed to be, something he’s supposed to be doing --maybe some of it could be allayed in a couple of hours. Favorite childhood toy, where he was born, why when Sam had practically crawled into his lap it hadn’t felt wrong or unusual or an invasion of privacy, it had felt weird but familiar, almost right, like joining two puzzle pieces. There were stories and explanations and years of memories in Sam’s head, and he wanted to hear them all.

Sam had resumed staring at his knees, unconsciously picking at the pilled couch cushion. He looked almost sick, face drawn and lips pressed together. He reached up to scratch at the healing cut along his hairline, then stopped himself. “I think… I think I need more time. To, uh, figure this out. How much I should tell you.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then bit at a thumbnail. He glanced up. “Tomorrow.”

Dean swallowed his impatience. “Tomorrow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Parker and Barrow sound kind of familiar, it might be because of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Tomorrow began with a half-awake trek to the kitchen** to find the coffee already brewed and a folded piece of paper on the table with his name on it weighted down with a cell phone. A fully-awake run for the bedroom revealed that Sam had repacked everything and left (though not before making the bed with military corners). Dean cursed all the way back to the table, wishing he had something to break.

_Dear Dean,_ the letter began, _I’m sorry for leaving like this but I realized I don’t know how to explain anything without explaining everything and I can’t bring myself to do that. You have a good life here, or at least a safe, normal one, and one of us should have that. You always took care of me when we were growing up and I guess it’s my turn._

_A few words of advice that might not make any sense: Stay in Arizona. It’s a safe place, and you don’t really have a reason to believe that but please believe me. Learn to shoot-- you were really good before, and I bet your muscle memory will serve you well here. Go to school-- you’re really smart, Dean, you can be so much more than a car mechanic. Get a degree in something._

_Your name is Dean Winchester, but it would be safer to stay Dean Barrow. You were born January 24th, 1979 to John and Mary Winchester. I was born four years later on May 2nd. Your favorite band is Led Zeppelin. Your favorite color is either dark blue or camo green. Your favorite food is a burger with everything on it, but I’m proud of the green stuff in your fridge. Keep that up._

_The tattoo is important. Keep it._

_You were the best brother a man could ask for, and I’m glad that you’re getting out. It’s a pretty terrible life, Dean, and it’s going to suck doing it on my own but I’ll feel better knowing you’re out of it. If you need anything at all-- I mean ANYTHING --call me with the cell phone I left. It has my number in it. If it’s safe, I’ll text you sometimes. I switch cell phones a lot, but I’ll keep you updated with my number._

_Please don’t be angry. I guess you’ll be angry and that’s completely justified but just know that I’m doing the best I can. PLEASE DON’T INVESTIGATE. If you start poking around, there are people who might recognize you and then God only knows what will happen._

_If I was in person you’d never let me say this, but I love you, man. Take care of yourself, okay?_

_Stay safe,_

_Your brother, Sam_

_You’re allergic to cats but nothing else I know of. Don’t drink. The Impala is technically yours but I need it and I’m taking good care of it (I swear the shape it was in when I almost drove into your garage isn’t the norm). You had a few steady girlfriends but I don’t think you ever thought about marrying them. Enjoy the little things. OH MY GOD YOU LOVE PIE. I can’t believe I almost forgot to add that. I won’t be so cliché as to say ‘burn this after reading it’ but it would probably be better to keep this out of sight, since your real name and birthday are in here. I’m being paranoid, which is part of the job. I’m sorry it’s like this. I wish it could be different._

“So do I, Sam,” Dean muttered, crumpling the letter and throwing it viciously into his trash can. “So do I.”

* * *

That night he got up after an hour of tossing and turning and retrieved the letter. He smoothed it out on his mattress and read it again by his bedside lamp, trying to extract information between the lines of clear, mostly-even handwriting.  


He tried to picture it, Sam sitting at the dining room table or, more probably, shoving the lamp to one side to use the bedside table. Tapping the pen against his lower lip, picking his words carefully, trying to pick words that were ‘safe.’ There were still so many gaping holes.

Paranoia, firearms, and burner cell phones part of ‘the job,’ school not so much if he didn’t get a degree before. Four uses of ‘safe,’ several more oblique references to safety ( _PLEASE DON’T INVESTIGATE_ ). A pervasive air of urgency, the letters starting to crowd at the end, the lines becoming uneven. One mention of their parents, one reference to Dean being the caretaker when Sam was growing up-- what happened to their parents? Dead? Left? Practically nothing else about Sam. Birthday, in Dean’s care, and the anxiety he could read in the unconsciously emphasized words where Sam pressed the pen down harder, words like ‘Arizona’ and ‘important’ and most of the ‘please’s.

He read it over again, and discovered to his surprise that he’d memorized it. Then again, there wasn’t really that much to memorize.

He left the letter on the bedside table, stared at the cell phone for a few minutes, then turned out the light and tried to sleep.

* * *

>You’re a real son of a bitch.> he typed out a half hour later. >Nice work, Houdini.>  


The phone stayed silent long enough for him to fall asleep accidentally.

* * *

<It’s a skill.< was the entirety of the reply he read the next morning. Sam had sent it at three in the morning. He wondered where he was and what he’d been doing awake.  


>When do you sleep? Are you nocturnal?>

His phone chimed as he was locking the front door. <Not nocturnal as such, no.<

* * *

The rest of the day was different than normal, filled at odd moments with the chime of his phone. Jason looked at him strangely the first time. “Is that you? When did you get a phone?”  


“Yeah, uh… yesterday.” <Yeah, I said technically. Technically, the car is yours. But possession is nine-tenths of the law, you know.<

“Did what’s-his-name actually leave last night?”

“Sam,” Dean informed him absently. “And yeah.” >And you can’t go ‘possess’ a different car?>

“Why?”

Dean looked up from the phone. “Huh?”

“Why’d he leave? Did he remember?” Jason leaned over his work table, eyes alight with possibilities. “He remembered, didn’t he? Did he say who shot him?”

Dean blinked, trying to sort out how best to answer. “No, he didn’t remember,” he lied slowly, “or at least if he did, he didn’t tell me. He, uh, left a note that didn’t make much sense. Something about ‘finding himself.’” He rolled his eyes. “Can you believe that?”

To his relief, Jason looked disappointed and dropped the topic. He picked up another bad one when Dean’s phone chimed again. “Dude, please tell me that’s Heather.”

<No.< “Heather and I aren’t ‘in a relationship,’ Jason,” he reminded shortly, utilizing air quotes.

Jason groaned. “Get out while you still can.”

* * *

<Okay, smart guy, you win. I have to turn my phone off for a while, so I’ll text you back when I can, okay? Good luck with Heather.<  


Dean frowned at the phone screen as the timestamp changed to say “4 days ago.” _Clearly we have different definitions of ‘a while.’_

Heather appeared in the doorway, makeup brush in hand. “Are you getting ready or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” He pocketed the phone and walked over to the mirror to fix his collar.

“Hasn’t texted back yet, huh?”

He couldn’t decipher her tone, so he said as neutrally as possible, “Nope.”

“Are you worried about him?”

He paused in the midst of figuring out the tie and couldn’t keep back a breath of incredulous laughter. “Uh, what?”

Heather reappeared. “I didn’t mumble, Dean.” She looked… intense. Not angry, perhaps a little puzzled, and definitely intent on his answer.

“Um…” _Shit, what’s the right answer?_ “Yeah, I guess. I mean, he left before the doctor…” Heather had frowned, then smiled, then frowned again. “What?”

“I’m trying to decide how I feel about that,” Heather said, going back to the mirror.

Dean undid his mixed progress with the tie and started over. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Heather said nothing for a long moment. He heard her sigh. “Dean, do you even realize--” She stopped, then came into the doorway again. She looked like she was trying to decide whether to be angry or sad. “How long have we known each other?”

He felt himself bracing for another argument and avoided eye contact. “Three months.”

“And are you aware, Dean, that in that whole time, you haven’t given a damn about me? Oh, I know,” she held up a hand to forestall his objection. “I know, and I’m not saying you’ve been a bad… You haven’t been a _boyfriend_ , Dean. Not the way I define boyfriend. I’m not saying you’ve been cold, or mean, or anything, you just…” She shrugged. “I don’t know, Dean, but it’s like… You never really committed. It’s like you’re waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” His voice came out sharper than he intended.

A faint smile just tipped up the corners of her mouth. “I was talking about a ‘whom.’”

Dean’s brain blanked on a response, so he said nothing. Their fancy dinner was nearly silent, and when she left Heather kissed his forehead, smiled encouragingly, and said, “Go get him, tiger.”

“I… He’s…” Dean subsided, feeling hot and embarrassed but also unwilling to explain everything. He smiled tightly. “Thanks.”

* * *

His phone chimed on the way home and he nearly hit a tree swerving off the road.  


<So howd it go?<

>You define a while as four days??>

<That good huh?<

>Dammit, Sam! Are you alright?>

<Im fine.<

Dean sighed heavily, massaged the bridge of his nose, and decided not to press it. >Yeah, sure, which is why you didn’t contact me for four days, and it takes you two minutes to text three words. Without apostrophes. Heather and I broke up.>

<Im sorry dean.<

_Whatever, man, she thinks I’m gay for you._ He suppressed a shudder.  >It’s no big. We weren’t serious.>

<Ill ttyl, i gotta sleep.<

>Okay, Sam.> The uneasiness in his stomach roiled a little, reasserting its presence. >Take care of yourself.>

<Thats my line.<

* * *

Sam got gradually more verbose over the next few days, returning apostrophes and capital letters a linguistic marker of his improving health. Their texts back in forth slowed down in number and became more spread out.  


Dean tried to keep the questions about the nebulous ‘before’ short and only asked one or two a day, guessing it had to be painful for Sam to answer. Sometimes the answer was obviously edited. Sometimes the silence went on for so long he’d apologize and ask something else. Rarely, he’d get several texts expounding a particular story or personal quirk.

<Im gonna harass you now.< Sam announced one evening. <What time is it there?<

Dean glanced at the clock. >5:45. Why, what time is it for you?>

<7:49. Indiana is borrring. Should I start a bar fight?<

Dean stared at his phone’s screen for a long moment, wondering whether he should be worried or not. >Didn’t you just get out of the hospital?>

<Week and ahalf ago. But maybe you’re right.<

>You start bar fights often?> Dean tried to imagine the quiet, emotional Sam slugging it out a week and a half after getting out of the hospital (why, he wouldn’t specify) and started worrying anyway.

<Not so muchj. If you’re wondering, you didn’t either. They kind of happende around you sometimes, though. And I’m getting kind of drunk.<

>Any particular reason?>

<Idunno, just felt like being stupid myabe?<

>Well, don’t.>

* * *

Two hours later he was trying to convince himself that worrying about Sam was stupid. Whatever he was doing, he could handle himself.  


_Unless he can’t,_ a voice in the back of his head kept whispering. _Unless he’s injured and angry and hurt and too drunk to be smart._ His phone chimed and he nearly dislocated his shoulder flipping over to grab it.

<Whhy arent yuo here?<

>Are you still drinking?>

The reply took several minutes. <Sorta, i bouggt some ofdads favrotie bac kto trh motel. Whu arent yuo here? We shloud be mathcingbeers like before<

>I’m not going to talk to you when you’re drunk, Sam. Call me when you’re sober.>

Dean turned off his phone, feeling like he was making a mistake.

* * *

When he turned it back on at midnight after another hour of tossing and turning, Sam had texted him only once more.  


<Iknoww hat you meant nowwhen yuosaid you didnt wannnto do this alone. I don;t want todo thiss aline eithre..<

He shut it off again.

* * *

The next morning when Dean turned his phone on he had a voicemail and a text that said <Ignore the voicemail.<  


He didn’t play it, but he didn’t delete it.

* * *

Sam didn’t text for three days. Dean didn’t feel like breaking the silence.  


Everyone seemed to give him a wide berth and he was okay with that. He didn’t want to talk to anyone anyway.

The fourth day, a package came for him in the mail: a small box, no return address, but according to the postmark mailed from New Haven, CT. Inside a pocket of bubble wrap he found a flattish, roundish grey rock about two inches at its widest point, two smooth holes worn through it. It had been made into a bracelet with the help of red and brown leather cords wrapped around each other and strung through the holes. _Found this hag stone at Lighthouse Point Park,_ the note read in familiar, even handwriting. _They’re supposed to be good luck, so I bought some leather and made it into a bracelet for you. I don’t know if you’re looking into college but I can help pay for it if you can’t find the right scholarships. I’m sorry about the drunk texting. I don’t intend to make that a habit. ~Sam_

“Make what a habit, Sammy?” Dean muttered, popping the bubble wrap and tearing up the cardboard box. “The drinking or the letting me know you’re drinking?”

The bracelet fit perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the texting is understandable, because there's a lot of it in upcoming chapters.
> 
> Dean's favorite band is the only canon up there; favorite colors, for instance, are a complete shot in the dark. The only reason Sam said a burger was his favorite food and not pie was because he was thinking of entrees in light of the salad fixings in Dean's fridge.
> 
> Also, the voicemail will be relevant in the sequel. Theoretically. Hopefully.
> 
> Also also, if I cared enough I would have edited the part where Sam starts drunk-texting to reflect the fact that he's doing it because he's alone and it's Christmas. Yeah. They're ALONE at CHRISTMAS. But apparently I don't care enough. ::cough::


	4. Chapter 4

**> Any suggestions what my major should be?>**

<What sounds good?<

>Several, Sam, that’s why I’m asking you! What did I like doing?>

<I suspect anything you liked doing before will be things you still like doing.<

>That’s very vague.>

<I’m sorry.<

>Did I cook before?>

<No, not really, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t, I guess.<

>Real vote of confidence there, bro. What about architecture?>

<That definitely didn’t come up in our line of work.<

>Any hobbies you can divulge??>

The reply was a while in coming. <RPG. Strategy in general. Reading people. Finding workable solutions.<

>Wow. I’m sorry I asked. And will putting your number as my emergency contact be too ‘dangerous’?>

<Yes. Are you going to be living on campus?<

>If I can.>

<Okay. Don’t put down my number. I’ll get back to you in a minute.<

Dean stared at his phone, unsure how he should be feeling.

Sam texted back with two phone numbers. <First number’s Uncle Bobby (Robert Singer). He isn’t our real uncle but he might as well be. Put him down as your emergency contact. He’ll get in touch with me if something happens.<

>And the second number?>

<My new cell.<

>Am I correct in assuming I won’t get an answer if I ask why you’re changing cell phones?>

Another pause. <I’m sorry Dean.<

Dean hissed out his frustration. >If you gotta keep secrets, you gotta, I guess.>

<I really am sorry. God, Dean, you have no idea how much I wish I could tell you everything.<

>Actually, Sam, probably about as much as I wish you could tell me everything.>

Sam didn’t reply.

* * *

>So I never went to college before?>

<No.<

>That would explain why dealing with this shit doesn’t feel familiar.>

<I shouldn’t laugh. What kind of shit?<

>No you shouldn’t, asshole. Just-out-of-teen-years shit. What kind of music is this??>

<Be careful playing Led Zeppelin too loud, though: that attracts ‘I was born in the wrong century’ types.<

>Led Zeppelin is not that old!!>

<You think 18-yr-olds care?<

>Why did I let you talk me into this?>

<You decided to go to college all by yourself.<

>Yeah, well, it’s hard to turn down ‘I’ll pay for everything.’>

<It certainly is.<

>You know, I looked into the scholarship.>

<Oh?<

>Apparently I’m the first sponsor. It’s a brand new program.>

<Oh?<

>Dammit, Sam, I know this is you somehow.>

<You’re one suspicious son of a bitch. I look like the kind of person who’s won the lottery to you? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Dean. Just enjoy the ride. Study hard. Party hard. Avoid the freshmen.<

>Why, because they’re not legal?>

<Yes but also no, asshole, they’re just annoying. You may not remember being 18, Dean, but trust me, you think you know everything at that age and you know nothing. NOTHING. Most 18-yr-olds are pretentious as SHIT. They think they’ve got their act together and they DO NOT and they’re secretly terrified and they think they’re being ‘deep’ or some shit because they’re scared about the future. They’re too stupid to realize that everyone is scared of the future.<

>Am I sensing some projection there, bro?>

<Shut up and unpack, bro. What dorm are you in?<

>I forget. Why, are you gonna visit?>

<I might.<

That pulled Dean up short. He rifled through the paperwork and found the dorm name. >You’re gonna love this. It’s Einstein. Einstein dorm.>

<God.<

Dean smirked. >No, Einstein. Where are you?>

<Just crossed the border into NE. There’s a reason they’re called the flyover states. If I never see another blade of stupid prairie grass again it will be too soon.<

>Were you already on your way here?>

It took Sam a moment to reply. <Yeah, kinda.<

>When will you be here?>

<Not for a week, I think.<

_A week?_ >How long does it take to drive from NE to AZ?>

<About 20 hours, barring other stops.<

_Other stops._ >Ah.>

<Sorry. I’ll text you when I cross state lines.<

>Stay safe.>

<You too.<

_From what?_ Dean wanted to ask, but didn’t.

* * *

Dean’s phone chimed just as he was settling down to watch a dumb paranormal show. <Welcome to Arizona.<

>What the hell, I thought you were going to be a week??>

<So did I but things turned out differently.<

_What things? Differently how?_ >Good. You can help me move furniture.>

<Wait, I just remembered something important…<

>Asshole. When will you be here?>

<It’d be 2am if I just drove straight there, so I was gonna crash at a motel soon and get there by 9ish.<

>Do you need to sleep? I’ll still be up at 2am anyway.>

<I won’t be party crashing, will I?<

>I’ll let it slide this once.>

<Are you partying?<

>Technically, the roommate’s partying.>

<Oh my god, Dean.<

>You did say party hard.>

<I give terrible advice.<

>I dunno, you were right about the freshmen. They ARE pretentious as shit.>

* * *

<Welcome to Phoenix.<

>Welcome indeed. Party’s just getting started.>

<Oh god.<

* * *

>When are you getting here?>

* * *

>Sam?>

* * *

>Sam, where the hell are you?>

<Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.<

>Where are you??>

<Outside.<

>Why aren’t you inside?>

* * *

>Sam, I swear to god, if I don’t see your ass in here in five minutes, I’m gonna track you down.>

* * *

Dean was half-listening to a sophomore ramble about her failing love life when he finally saw Sam appear in the doorway. He raised a hand, inhaled to call his brother, then paused as Sam stepped into the light from the living room lamp.

Sam looked terrible. A long, thin line of red cut across the bridge of his nose and under his right eye. His eyes were sunken and if Dean had thought he’d seen dark circles before, he redefined them now. Sam had cut his hair short, too short in Dean’s opinion, making his ears look too big and his head too small for his broad shoulders. He didn’t look like he’d showered, shaved, or changed clothes in a while. Despite said broad shoulders and being taller than anyone else in the room by at least three inches, Sam looked skittish, and his darting glance scanned the crowd before settling on Dean. He relaxed slightly and smiled a smile that was at least half-forced. He waved and held up a six-pack in his other hand, then jerked his head backwards as if to say _Can we talk somewhere quiet?_

Dean nodded once and said goodbye to the sophomore, who barely noticed his absence when another guy sat next to her. Dean slid through the crowd easily and stepped outside the dorm room. “Teenagers,” he said, adding some enthusiasm to his voice. “Think they don’t need--”

Sam hugged him without warning and released him just as suddenly. “Hey,” he said, sounding out of breath. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Dean hedged. Sam looked worse up close. In addition to sunken and bruised, his eyes were bloodshot. The skin around the cut across his face was raised and red. Bruises peeked out from under his shirt collar, and his worn-out long-sleeved shirt and dirty, wrinkled black jeans looked (and smelled) like he hadn’t changed in a few days. “I guess there are too many people to move my furniture, huh?”

Sam nodded, forcing the smile again. “Yeah, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, then offered the six-pack as if he’d just remembered it. “This, um, this used to be your favorite.” The smile fractured and disappeared. “Or, well, it’s the kind you always bought.”

Dean glanced it over, barely noticing the brand name. “Looks good,” he said. “I think there’s a way onto the roof, though there might be some teenagers making out up there.”

“We could talk in the car,” Sam offered. He still sounded like he’d run several miles to get here, rather than up two flights of stairs.

Dean nodded again, noting with displeasure the way this whole situation had changed from ‘talking to my adult brother’ into ‘figuring out what the hell is up with my jittery brother and not making any sudden moves in the meantime.’ “Shall we?” He gestured toward the staircase. The door banged open and half a dozen teenagers spilled out, some already halfway drunk.

Sam scanned the crowd as if looking for someone, then nodded once and murmured ‘excuse me’ and ‘pardon me’ as he slipped past the teenagers. He clattered down the stairs, one hand ghosting along the railing and the other clutching the beer, and Dean got a look at both the back of his neck (more bruises) and the back of his head, where the hair was cut so unevenly he wondered if Sam had cut it himself.

“Are you okay?” The grimly-spoken question echoed in the stairwell.

Sam turned and looked at him in surprise, then grinned. The harsh blue lights washed out what color was in his face and cast stark shadows, making his thin face look almost skeletal. “I’m fine.”

Dean was, to use a single word, unconvinced.

* * *

The Impala was parked down the block a little but not so far they couldn’t see Dean’s room windows glowing with yellow light. Dean pictured Sam sitting in the driver’s seat, jiggling a leg, maybe chewing his fingernails. He wished it was easier to picture Sam sitting in the driver’s seat just looking up, not on edge, just… he didn’t even know. Just not this Sam.

This Sam who slid into the driver’s seat with a grimace and was pulling out his keys before the door was even shut to sort through the loaded keyring for the bottle opener. This Sam who worried his lower lip as he uncapped two bottles with precision, his eyes focused and almost feverish. He handed one to Dean and clicked their necks together before taking a long pull. Dean was slower to drink, his eyes widening as he swallowed. “Damn, that _is_ good beer.”

Sam turned to smile at him, white teeth gleaming in the indirect light from a streetlamp. “Yeah, it’s good stuff.”

“I had good taste.”

“Have.”

“I won’t argue.” Dean shifted in the passenger seat, turning to face Sam. “So how’ve you been, really? And don’t lie and say you’re fine,” he continued, overriding Sam’s not quite spoken objection. “Because you clearly aren’t, and you’re a terrible liar.”

The smile returned, or an almost passable imitation of one, anyway. “Really, Dean, I’m okay.” A hand came up to scratch at the cut and then dropped. “I mean, it’s been hard, but… I’m okay. I’m figuring it out.” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly not used to the haircut yet.

“You cut your hair yourself?”

Sam shrugged slightly. Dean sensed the move was cautious and wondered how many bruises were hiding under the wrinkled navy blue shirt. “Why pay someone when you’ve got scissors?”

“Other people have experience. Finesse.”

“Ouch.” Sam laughed. _At least 25% forced._ “I’ll pay for someone to get it buzzed or something, how’s that?”

“Hell no.” Dean tried to keep his tone light. “Your ears are way too big for a buzzcut, Dumbo.”

Another laugh. _Less forced._ “Geez, you still know how to cut deep.” Sam ran his hand through his hair again, grimacing slightly. “See, this is why I was gonna crash and come tomorrow. I could’ve showered.”

“Dude, I’m living with teenagers. You think I care about a little BO?” Dean was surprised to discover exactly how much he didn’t care. “You do look pretty awful, though, dude. When’s the last time you slept? Or ate?”

“Your tendency to mother-hen me hasn’t changed either.” Sam sounded like he couldn’t decide whether he was going to be angry or amused.

“Seriously, Sam. Last real meal?”

“Ah--” Sam waved it away. “Yesterday sometime.”

Dean resisted the urge to press the question. _Yesterday when, Sammy? Breakfast? Lunch?_ Instead, he said, “There’s a 24-hour diner down the road a little. Caters to the college crowd. Good burgers, and dirt cheap cos, again, college crowd.”

“Dean, I’m a wreck--”

“I’m hungry too, man. Especially thinking of those burgers. And they make a mean apple pie. It’s a block straight, then one block to the left.”

“With an open container in the car?”

Dean considered. “We could walk.” He pushed at Sam’s shoulder, noting the way Sam tensed and winced. “Do you good. You’ve been in this car too long. C’mon, two blocks.”

“All right, all right.” Sam got out of the car with care, using the door as leverage again. “Hey, uh, Dean?”

Another lightless explosion went off behind his eyes and Dean leaned on the car. “Uh, gimme a sec.”

“Whoa, hey, Dean, are you okay?”

His vision swam, the road swaying in front of him. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, like _hell_ you get to pull that card--” Sam was around the car in an instant, rock-steady hands on Dean’s wrist and elbow. “Do you need to sit down? Does this happen often? What causes it?”

“No, no, and you.” It took a second to realize he’d said it aloud. _Dammit._

Sam stiffened beside him. “Oh.” It wasn’t so much a word as an exhalation, like all the air had been driven from his lungs.

“What were you gonna ask, Sammy?”

Sam stared at him for a long moment, laughed once incredulously, then shook his head. “You called m-- Uh, I don’t remember.”

_One of these days,_ Dean thought grimly, _I am going to make you laugh for real._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean is going to a fictional university. Not one thing here is even remotely based on fact. I've never even been to Arizona.


	5. Chapter 5

**“I remember now,”** Sam announced after a half hour of two burgers, cold fries, and enough coffee that Dean was getting jitters for him. Sam seemed unaffected, or at least no more jittery than he’d been. “I was gonna ask you what classes you’re taking.”

Dean didn’t want to talk college. He wanted to talk Sam. In the warm light of the diner, the cut looked redder and Sam’s skin paler. His wrists were bonier, his collarbone more prominent, and the way he’d inhaled the burgers said he hadn’t been eating enough for a while. His fingernails were broken, dirty, and/or chewed down to the quick. The pink scar along his hairline was visible with his cut hair. “When did you almost crash into my garage?”

Sam blinked. “God, I dunno. More than… two months ago, probably. Why?”

“Because you--” Dean caught and held a wrist, rubbing his thumb pointedly over the bone. “--don’t look like you’ve eaten in that whole time.”

Sam went still, eyes darting between Dean’s hand and Dean’s eyes. “I’ve eaten,” he said thinly.

“Sure you have.” Dean let go and Sam pulled both hands under the table. “You look _terrible_ , Sam.”

“Nice to see you too,” Sam muttered.

“You keep telling me to be safe and take care of myself, but you’re a hypocrite, Sammy. Who’s taking care of you?”

“It’s Sam.”

Dean threw down a napkin and leaned over the table. “I don’t care if it’s Yukon Cornelius, man, and I don’t care what you tell me, you look like _shit._ Any chance you can dodge the Illuminati long enough to get a decent night’s rest?”

Sam laughed incredulously again, and scanned the diner as if looking for someone to laugh with him. “Okay,” he admitted, to Dean’s surprise. “I’ve been sleeping like crap and maybe I haven’t been eating enough lately. But I’m figuring it out, okay? I’m… I’m getting there.”

“How much figuring does it take to remember to eat roughly three times a day?”

Sam’s face closed and his gaze dropped to the tabletop. “It’s complicated. I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to eat?” Dean pressed.

Sam looked up again, tension around his eyes and a spark of anger in the back of them. “I just never did this alone before, okay?”

“Did what?”

Sam’s mouth opened and then closed with an audible click of his teeth. “Oh, no. We’re not talking about that. We are talking about you and your college classes. We are talking about you graduating. We are talking about you making it.”

“Making it where, Sam? Picket fence, two and a half kids?”

“Yes!” Sam realized too late he’d shouted and he smiled apologetically around the diner. The handful of other people returned to their food and he leaned over the table. “Yes,” he repeated, voice quiet but intense, stabbing the table with a finger at every item. “Beautiful wife, two and a half kids, picket fence, cookouts on weekends, neighbors. Normal. _Safe._ ” He sat back, breathing quickly.

“Are you aware, Sam, that every time you say those words ‘normal’ or ‘safe’ I _really_ start to wonder about our childhood?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over, done. The past is past. Focus on your future. You _have_ one, for God’s sake, don’t waste it.”

“Who shot you, Sam?”

Sam flinched as if struck, eyes darting around the diner again. “What? What does that--”

“I’ve got a future but you don’t? You were bleeding out in your car when you crashed into my garage from getting shot in the shoulder. Somebody shot you. Somebody cut you. And, a little more recently, somebody beat you up, if all those bruises hiding under your shirt are any indication.” Sam’s self-conscious shift, paired with a quick look down, confirmed Dean’s suspicions. _Gotcha._ “What the hell are you doing, Sammy? Cos it sure as hell isn’t good for your health, and I’m getting sick of your ‘you can be safe’ shit. What about you?”

“Dammit--” Sam rubbed at his still-bloodshot eyes. “Dean, don’t you understand, it’s _because_ I’m doing what I’m doing that you’re safe. It’s cause and effect.”

“And you can’t fake-die or whatever it is that got me out of whatever it is you do?” Sam leaned his head on his hands, eyes hidden. His shoulders shook almost imperceptibly and suddenly Dean realized he was crying. “Ah, Sam--”

“No,” Sam said, voice somehow both wavering and stern. “It doesn’t work like that.” He looked up at Dean, eyes gleaming with tears but none falling. “I tried. Not the fake death, but I’ve _tried_ , okay, I’ve tried not--” He stopped himself, swallowed hard, and resumed, “I’ve _tried_ to get out and it doesn’t _work_. If it worked, I’d’ve been… I’d be a lawyer by now, living in California with my… my wife.” His voice caught painfully on ‘wife’ and Dean’s stomach dropped as he tried to picture himself in a wedding party, Sam’s tearful smile as his fiancée walked down the aisle--

“ _Shit_ , Sam. I didn’t know…”

Sam looked at him in surprise, then realization dawned. “Oh. No, Dean, we never got that far.” His voice was dull now, almost lifeless, as if that would cancel out the agony lurking in the back of his eyes. “I didn’t even get to ask her.”

Dean wasn’t sure if that made things better or worse. “Shit. I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“Hazard of the job.”

“See, that’s what I mean--”

“Don’t.” Sam held up a hand. “Don’t, Dean.” Dean faltered to a halt. “I can’t. I’ve tried. Drop it.”

Dean nodded reluctantly. “Okay, fine.” He caught the waitress’s eye and gestured for her to come over. “I’ll pay this time.”

“Uh-uh, college boy, let me.”

Dean opened his mouth to protest, then forced a smile. “Okay, I’ll let you. But you gotta come back to the dorm and take a shower.”

“Dean--”

“Ah! No arguments. The shower is _fantastic._ You have to try it. And you can borrow some of my clothes and crash on the couch.”

“What about your roommate’s party?”

“Eh, we’ll just kick ’em out.” Dean smiled again, a little less forced. “I can sleep in tomorrow-- no class. We’ll tell ’em the old guy needs his beauty sleep.”

Sam smiled back; weakly, but sincerely enough. _Success._

* * *

By the time Sam got out of the shower, Dean had managed to herd everyone out the door, including (to his pleasant surprise) even his roommate. “Just you and me, bro,” he announced at the bathroom door. “I think Jack found accommodating company of the female persuasion.”

“Great.” Sam didn’t sound like he cared and when he opened the door it became obvious that he didn’t. Dean’s borrowed t-shirt was tight across his shoulders and loose around his waist. “Is the couch reasonably clean? I thought maybe I could drive, but, uh…” He yawned, his jaw popping painfully. Dean winced. “Not a good idea, I think,” Sam finished, eyes at half mast.

“No problem, I have a queen.”

“No, Dean, you don’t have to--”

“I’m gonna anyway. C’mon, Sam. You’re about to fall over.”

Sam sighed in exhausted exasperation. “If I were more awake--”

“Good thing you aren’t, then, huh?” Dean took his elbow and led a yawning Sam into the bedroom. “You prefer a side?”

“Left,” Sam said sleepily, settling onto the mattress.

“Convenient. I prefer the right.”

“I know.”

Dean paused, shirt halfway off, then tossed it into his hamper and almost started framing a question. Sam’s soft, even breathing killed the idea in its infancy and he smirked as he turned off the light.

* * *

Dean half-woke sometime in the night to hear stifled crying, the bed shaking so slightly he barely felt it at all. He rolled over, puzzled, eyes bleary and unfocused. He was momentarily baffled by short dark hair above a masculine face, and then he remembered. “Y’okay there Sammy?” he slurred.

Sam choked, sniffed, and nodded. “Sorry,” he whispered without opening his eyes. “Bad dream.”

“You get bad dreams a lot?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Dean hummed in acknowledgement, then unburied his arm and threw it over Sam.

Sam’s eyes startled open. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“C’mere.” Dean tugged on Sam’s-- well, his --shirt, pulling him closer until they were almost breathing the same air. He rolled onto his back and gave the shirt one more tug, by which point Sam seemed to get the idea.

Sam shifted forward until his head was resting on Dean’s shoulder. “You won’t be able to feel your arm tomorrow,” he mumbled. His voice vibrated against Dean’s skin so he almost felt it more than heard it.

Dean grunted, as much to say _shut up and go to sleep._

Sam was asleep in minutes. Dean lay half-awake for a while, listening to him breathe and wondering vaguely when he’d started staying awake to hear anyone breathe.

* * *

Dean woke to the sun in his eyes, the smell of frying bacon, and Green Day playing quietly in another room. He squinted at his alarm clock, blinking several times when it refused to be later than 9am. “The hell are you doing awake already?” he grumbled, not so much because he really wanted to keep sleeping or because he thought Sam should still be sleeping (though, really, he should have been), but more out of a general feeling that no one should have to get up before 10am on their day off. He crawled out from under his sheets and pulled on a shirt before wandering towards the bedroom.

Sam was flipping slices of bacon, humming along to the radio. He turned and smiled. “Morning, sleeping beauty.” He gestured at the full coffee machine with the tongs. “Already made coffee.” He looked quite a bit better: the dark circles were lighter, his hair clean and mussed, uneven stubble shaved away. He was back in his own clothes, which also appeared cleaner.

“Thanks.” Dean poured a mug and downed half of it in two swallows, then refilled it. “Also, ha ha, you’re hilarious. Can I ask you a question?”

Sam remained relaxed, arranging bacon in the pan. “Sure.”

“There a reason you’re up at the crack of dawn?”

Sam chuckled. “Eight in the morning is hardly the crack of dawn, Dean.”

“It is on my day to sleep in.” Dean blinked. “You were up at eight? My _God_ , what for?”

“I went for a run.”

Dean drained his coffee cup. “At the risk of repeating myself, let me repeat myself: what _for?_ ”

“To be honest?” Sam scooped several slices of bacon onto the plate covered with paper towels and patted them dry. “So I’d feel better about eating half your bacon.” He picked up a slice and folded it into his mouth, then hissed in pain. “Hng-- Dah, thas hot!”

“Yeah, it’s gotta cool first, you dipstick.” Dean got up to fill his mug one more time. “Well, I don’t have class today, but I don’t know how long you were--”

“Not long.” Sam bit his lip and looked away. “Sorry. I wish I could stay.”

“Why can’t you?” Dean tried to keep his tone light, and leaned against the counter next to the stove. “Big Brother looking over your shoulder?” Sam chuckled humorlessly and shook his head, pulling more bacon out of the pan. Dean waited but no further information seemed forthcoming. “Listen, my roommate probably won’t be back--”

“I don’t want to take that chance.” Sam now seemed to be avoiding his gaze. “The sooner I’m gone, the fewer questions I have to field-- the fewer questions _you_ have to field. Anyway, I don’t like to leave the Impala alone too long.”

“Yeah, she is a beaut.”

“That’s-- I--” Sam tapped the tongs against the pan. “Yeah. She runs a lot better now. I mean, I know when I sort of crashed into the garage she wasn’t in too good of shape…”

“And that’s my car?” Dean picked a piece of bacon off the plate and blew on it before shoving the whole thing in his mouth.

“Well-- technically, yeah. But I need her.”

“You need my car?”

Sam pressed his lips together, the skin around his eyes tightening. He couldn’t hide behind his haircut anymore, and in the morning light the amateur cut of it was much more obvious. “I can’t explain it, okay, I just…”

“You need my car.” Dean shrugged, trying to pretend he didn’t care. “Whatever, man.” _Smoke on the Water_ started playing. “Dude! I love this song!”

“I know.” Sam reached toward the radio and pulled up the iPod attached to it. “This is my music.”

“That Green Day was you? Damn.” Dean shook his head. “I’m ashamed of you, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam. And you recognized it, so I’m not sure--”

“I’m older, all right? I know everything.”

Silence fell with the painful irony.

* * *

A church somewhere nearby was chiming 11 o’clock as Dean trailed Sam to the Impala. “Dude. You really gotta leave already?”

“Yeah, I, uh-- I got stuff to do,” Sam said, sorting through his keys. They slipped through his fingers and clattered into the gutter. “Dammit.” When he crouched to retrieve them, his shirt rode up, showing off dark purple crosshatched bruises along his lower back, as well as an ugly scar at the base of his spine.

“Whoa, what the hell happened to you?”

Sam straightened quickly, squinting at the pain, then tucked his shirt in as if that would make the marks disappear. “They’re just bruises, Dean.”

“Just-- Just bruises.” Dean bit down on the anger rising in his core. “Can you-- Do you think you could manage to be straight with me for _one damn minute?_ ”

Sam’s fingers tightened around the keys at about the same time as his face shut down. “No. You’re _safe_ , Dean. I’m not going to jeopardize that. You can’t--” He stopped, then laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. “Nevermind. Forget it. It’s a catch-22. You’d have to know what-- wasn’t safe to appreciate what I’m doing.”

“Sam--”

“ _No._ ” Sam shifted his weight forward, closing his fist around the keys except for his pointer finger which he didn’t so much shake in Dean’s face as in Dean’s general direction. “I’ll answer the questions I can, man, but I am _not_ going to put you in danger. If I can avoid that, if I can protect you--”

“Aren’t I supposed to be protecting you?” Dean demanded, spreading his arms as if posing the question to the neighborhood at large.

Sam froze, then blinked forcefully, but his eyes teared up anyway. “You did,” he said, the tension melting out of his posture, his voice catching. “You did, Dean. You did a great job. But I screwed up, man, I screwed up _again_ , big time, and this is the only way I know how to make it up to you. I’m sorry.”

Dean tried to stay mad, then gave it up with a sigh. “Don’t be sorry, just…” After a moment of hesitation he pulled Sam into a hug. “Just be safe, okay?”

“You too,” Sam managed, pulling back to squeeze Dean’s shoulders before letting go. He sniffed and rubbed at his nose with his sleeve. “I gotta go.”

Dean watched him climb into the driver’s seat, waved as he pulled away from the curb, and waited for Sam to check back once more before turning the corner and driving out of sight, but his younger brother didn’t look back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... this chapter is mostly texting. Just so you know.

<Dude. You haven’t been to the Grand Canyon yet, have you?<

>No.>

<Some day you have off you need to drive the three hours and check it out. It’s breathtaking.<

>I’ll do that.>

<Don’t be pissy, Dean; pouting is not a good look on you.<

>I’m not pouting.>

<Sure you aren’t.<

* * *

>Oh. My. God. I’m about this close to shoving that beer bottle where the sun don’t shine.>

<I take it the roommate is partying like a stupid, inconsiderate teenager?<

>They repeat this song one more time and I will not be responsible for my actions.<

<Just don’t get arrested. How are your classes going?<

>Good. You sure I didn’t go to college? Some of this stuff seems very easy.>

<Well, you did get your GED. Anyway I told you you were smart.<

>I already knew that.>

* * *

>So I’m going to venture a guess we had bad luck before? Because we seem like the kind of people with terrible luck.>

<Shit. What happened?<

>Nothing bad, I just got hit by a car.>

<Are yuo ok??<

>Other than laid up with a broken leg and some internal bruising that hurts like a MF, I’m fine.>

<Shit! But you’re okay?<

>I said I’m fine. I’ll heal. That bracelet you sent me doesn’t seem to have had that much good luck. It shattered and like three pieces got stuck in my wrist.>

<Depends on how you define good luck.<

>I got hit by a frigging car!!>

<Didn’t die, did you?<

>Oh and the bracelet saved me, I suppose??>

<Look up hag stones.<

* * *

>OH MY GOD you are NOT going to tell me you believe in this crap?>

<Someone does.<

>That doesn’t answer my question.>

<I’m just saying that belief came from somewhere. And you didn’t die.<

>Whatever man. You’re crazy.>

<I get that a lot.<

* * *

>I got a pass from classes for a week because of the internal injuries. I’m so bored, I have transcended boredom into a higher level of brain death. Send help.>

<You used to like soaps.<

>Fascinating. My brain is leaking out of my ears.>

<I mean soap operas, dumbass.<

>That seems improbable.>

<That’s what I thought too. Give it a try.<

* * *

>This is boring as hell.>

<Which one are you watching?<

>I feel like an idiot even freaking typing out soap opera names.>

<Which one?<

>Would you even recognize it if I typed it out? It’s a hospital one. It’s stupid.>

<Dr. Sexy M.D.?<

>How do you even know the title?? Do you watch this crap?? It’s just making my brain leak faster! Soon there will be none left and I’ll be a typical freshman! Is that what you want??>

<Weird. You used to like that one.<

>I LIKED THIS? Was I braindead when we worked together??>

* * *

<An unknown number is gonna text you in a minute. It’s my new number.<

<Still dying of boredom?<

>YES OMG What movies did I like?>

<Try westerns.<

>Thank God for the internet.>

* * *

>That was reasonably entertaining. No one shoots that good, though.>

<It’s been done.<

>Nah, give me a break.>

<Look up Annie Oakley.<

>I’ve stared at a computer screen for too long. I have a headache now.>

<Take some ibuprofen and sleep.<

>God, yes mother.>

* * *

>Slept for an hour. Bored again.>

* * *

>Sam?>

* * *

>You there, bro?>

<Sorry, you caught me at a bad time.<

>Not getting yourself killed, I hope.>

<Of course not. I am gonna turn off my phone in about an hour, though.<

>At the risk of repeating myself, let me repeat myself: not getting yourself killed, I hope.>

<God, Dean, no. A little faith. I can take care of myself.<

>Okay.>

<Don’t patronize me.<

>You can get a lot out of one little word, can’t you?>

<I know you, Dean, so yeah, I can get a whole book out of one word.<

* * *

<See, still alive.<

>Bleeding?>

<For god’s sake, Dean. I’m fine.<

>Concussed?>

<I’M FINE.<

>Sure you are.>

<I was on a ‘date,’ okay?<

>You have time to date?? Dude. Details. Hit me.>

<Brunette. Easily distracted. Didn’t have the information I needed. Colossal waste of time.<

>Wow, dude, that’s cold.>

<I don’t have time to date. Nor do I have the inclination, frankly. Lying to everyone on the planet gets pretty exhausting.<

>Do you tell anyone the truth?>

<A select one.<

>Wow. That Uncle Bobby?>

<Yeah.<

>What would happen if I gave him a call?>

<I honestly don’t know. But I don’t think he’d answer the most pressing of your questions.<

>Of course not.>

<Sorry, man. Don’t blame him; blame me. Safety, blah blah blah.<

>Pretty soon I’m going to have a Pavlovian response to that word. Someone will tell me to ‘stay safe’, and I’ll punch him in the face without even thinking.>

<Excellent use of Pavlovian.<

>New favorite word.>

* * *

>Hallelujah sing forever they’re letting me go back to school two days early!>

<That is not a phrase I ever expected to hear out of your mouth, but I’m glad to hear it.<

>They told me to take it easy and not to overdo it.>

<You didn’t punch anyone, right?<

>Considered it, but they didn’t actually tell me to be safe or anything.>

<Good. Punching doctors never goes over well.<

* * *

>So on the same theme of ‘we have bad luck always’…>

<Oh shit. What happened now?<

>Do we have spidey senses when things are going to get weird?>

<Why?<

>Because I would swear there’s a car following me. It’s always outside my classrooms. The windows are tinted, though, so I can’t tell if anyone’s in it or not.>

<Do you share classes with a lot of people?<

>I don’t think so.>

<Get me the make, model, and license plate and I’ll see what I can find out.<

>That’s… a little unsettling.>

<People put a lot of information on the internet, dude. It’s out there. You just have to know how to look for it.<

>If you say so.>

* * *

>I hope you don’t get dates this way.>

<What, by looking up background info on girls?<

>Yeah.>

<No, I don’t get dates this way.<

>You don’t get dates at all, do you?>

<No.<

>Did you before? When we worked together?>

<Not really.<

>That doesn’t really surprise me.>

<I’d ask what that’s supposed to mean but I don’t think I want to know.<

>You just seem like an uptight person.>

<Thanks, Dean.<

>Maybe you’d relax a little if you got laid more often.>

<I’m turning off my phone for a while now.<

>Said in love, dude. You need to unwind.>

<Talk to you later, Dean.<

>Man was not meant to be alone.>

* * *

<Are you the praying type now, Dean?<

>Yeah. I mean I don’t go to church but yeah. It kind of cracks me up the way most people just pray when they’re in trouble. Not so up with the ‘in good times and in bad’ thing. Was I not before?>

<Not as such.<

>Are you?>

<I think we switched. I used to pray. Not so much anymore. I try but it feels like screaming into a void. And with what I do, sometimes it’s hard to hang onto the idea of a loving God. It was easier when I was younger.<

>Naivete?>

<I don’t know. I don’t think so? Innocence, maybe. I lost my innocence a while ago and now I’m well on my way to being a cynical, bitter old man.<

>How old are you again?>

<It’s not the years, it’s the mileage.<

>Oh my god that’s such a crotchety old man phrase. Maybe you ARE becoming a cynical, bitter old man prematurely. Why’d you ask, anyway?>

<How shall I put this. I am in trouble. Not in danger, but in trouble. The danger part comes later. Right now I’m trying to solve the problem and not coming up with any good solutions. So, if you’re the praying type…<

>Sure thing, bro. Are we having a moment?>

<What do you mean?<

>I pray for you already, Sam. Every day I think, God, what stupid thing is he doing today? And then I think, God, you know what stupid thing he’s doing today. Keep his idiotic, overprotective, giant ass out of the fire and also if you could knock some sense into him and remind him to eat that’d be great, amen.>

<Thanks, Dean. I appreciate that.<

>I thought we were having a moment.>

<We were.<

* * *

>You to the danger part yet?>

<No, still in the trouble part. Clock is ticking, though. I think I have a narrow window of opportunity and that’s what’s making me nervous. Not sure I can do what needs doing in that short a time frame.<

>Not that you’d tell me but are you an assassin or something?>

<I wouldn’t tell you.<

>God. That almost looks like a confession.>

<And yet it isn’t.<

>True. So if I do get you the make, model, and license plate, they won’t end up dead, right?>

<Depends on who the car belongs to. What if they’re serial killers? Would you still object?<

>This is not my philosophy class.>

<You’re going to a philosophy class?<

>The teacher is hot and by hot I mean SMOKING.>

* * *

>Not to be a pain in the ass but how’s it going?>

<You aren’t a pain in the ass (at least not currently). Everything’s planned, now we wait.<

>Please tell me you’re waiting for your backup.>

<Actually, I am.<

>I was under the impression you worked alone?>

<Usually. I can’t work this one alone.<

>But backup is good.>

<If you can trust them, sure.<

>Objection, do they still count as backup if you can’t trust them??>

<You’re in law school now?<

>No, just really concerned again. And you were being so reassuring, too. Dammit, Sam.>

* * *

<Turning off my phone. Talk to you later, Dean.<

>You’d better. Stay safe.>

<That’s my line.<

* * *

It was impressive, Dean thought, that a ringing phone could wake him from a sound sleep. He rose onto an elbow and pawed for his phone, then squinted at the bright blue display.  It said SAM and he flipped it open. “You’d better be okay,” he warned, voice rough with sleep. For a moment he heard nothing and his heart rate skyrocketed. “Oh my god, Sam, you’d--”

“Fine.” Sam’s voice shook. A long, ragged exhale followed a long, ragged inhale and he said, “I’m fine. How was your day?”

“Sam, are you--”

“No. Can’t talk about it.” Sam sounded one small push from tears. “I’m okay. I mean, I’m in one piece. I can’t-- I need-- How was your day, Dean?”

Dean rubbed his eyes and tried to remember. “Uh, it was pretty boring.”

“Start at the beginning. Your whole day. How did it go? Did you wake up before seven?”

“Are you nuts?”

Sam’s laugh was shaky. “Yeah, I think so. C’mon, dude. Just-- Details. Give me details.”

Dean resolved the creaking sound on the other end as Sam pacing back and forth. “Well, I got up at eight… It was a nice morning, I guess: sunny but not too hot. I hobbled into the kitchen and discovered my idiot roommate had finished off the coffee and hadn’t made a new pot. One of these days, Sam, I’m going to kill that kid. So after that wonderful little ‘screw you’ from him, I hobbled along to class. First class today was-- Oh. Um, I didn’t see the car. All day.”

“Good. That’s good.” Sam was still pacing, still breathing heavily. “It was probably nothing.”

“You think so?”

“No. Our luck isn’t that good. But what do I know, maybe. Maybe the universe decided to give me a break today. Who knows.”

“Hey, uh, did you drive past the Catholic church on the other side of campus?”

Sam’s pacing slowed. “I saw it. What about it?”

“Well, um. One of the kids down the hall is Catholic, she goes there, and, um, well, I tagged along yesterday morning. She goes to confession every day, can you imagine? She’s like, really uptight, so I don’t really know what she’s got to confess-- But, that wasn’t my point. My point is, uh, I went to the church and I talked to the pastor-- no, the priest? The priest. I talked to the priest and I told him-- Well, I didn’t tell him that I didn’t know what you actually do, so I lied (to a priest, more purgatory for me I guess?) and I told him you were a… a surgeon and needed… prayer. For a surgery to go well. So, he just-- he said, can I pray for him right now? and I said, sure, and he just knelt right there, right behind his desk (we were in his study or whatever) and he prayed for you and your nonexistent patient for like five minutes. I kid you not, dude. I kept expecting to get struck by lightning. And then he slaps me on the shoulder and says the whole church is going to pray for you and the recovery of your nonexistent patient next Sunday. Now I’m worried that he’s going to want updates. Updates on no one at all. So now I’m wondering, do I make them realistic updates, or does your patient have a miraculous recovery? I mean, which is the worse lie? Is one worse than another? All I know is I didn’t sign up for this.” He deciphered the quiet noises on the other end as muffled laughter. “Sam, are you laughing at me?”

“A little,” Sam managed. “I’m also crying a little. Or, um, maybe a lot.” He sniffed loudly. “Dammit. I wasn’t gonna… Dammit.” The Impala’s door creaked, then slammed. Sam sighed. “Keep talking. About your day. Please?”

 _It’s 3am, dude._ Dean collapsed back onto his pillows. “Sure, um, so… First class. Philosophy. Hot _damn._ This woman is _hot_ , Sam. Like, wow. Billowy brown hair, legs a mile long…”

“I’m a little more interested in your _classes_ , you pervert.” But Sam’s tone was fond, his breathing less strained, tears pushed aside. Dean could picture him leaning in the driver’s seat, one arm holding the phone to his ear, the other reaching across the back of the bench seat, long legs stretched under the steering wheel.

“Well, I’m not actually interested in philosophy, so after that class…”

Dean could never quite determine which of them fell asleep first.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hark, violence.

_**Bip.**_ Silence for perhaps 30 seconds. _Bip._

Dean groaned, twisted in his sheets, and fumbled at the obnoxious beeping object next to his left ear. It turned out to be his phone, whining at him to plug it in. _Battery exhausted. Call length: 4h42m._ “Whoops.” He shoved the phone onto his bedside table next to the charger cord, then scrubbed his face with his hands.

As usual, getting ready for class took twice as long with his casted leg. It was only from the knee down, but it weighed a ton and maneuvering through narrow doorways and crowded furniture with crutches was still something he had to work at. The crutches were great for poking his roommate, though. _Pros and cons._

Said roommate was nowhere to be seen or heard, and the coffeepot was cold. “Weird,” Dean muttered. Jack had been there the night before, watching some annoying late night talk show with the volume thoughtlessly loud, and for all his partying Jack was usually up early. Still, he was popular, and it was entirely possible he was sleeping over with a female friend. Dean tried to brush away the uneasiness and had a suitable college breakfast of cold pizza.

* * *

The feeling of unease didn’t go away. It lurked in the pit of his stomach, cold and tight, and seemed to haunt the pocket where he normally kept his phone. He repeatedly thought of things to text Sam before realizing he couldn’t. He started scribbling them down on a piece of looseleaf while the history prof rambled off on a tangent again.

_What classes were required for pre-law? How long have we known ‘Uncle’ Bobby? You did sleep in a bed last night, right? I mean, eventually?_

After lunch, he headed back to his apartment to get his phone. It would be fully charged by then, probably with a text or two from an overly-nervous Sam.

He stepped into the elevator, barely noted the two guys, felt his uneasiness skyrocket for reasons he couldn’t explain, and then everything went dark.

* * *

“…just kinda unimpressed, I guess.”

“He’s in college, man-- he’s gone soft in his old age.”

It took Dean a moment to realize that the echoing of the voices wasn’t just in his head. Twitching his arms and legs confirmed his suspicion that he was tied to a chair. The air around him was still, musty, and hot. He cracked an eyelid and two blurry silhouettes against bright light eventually resolved into two guys standing in front of your average run-of-the-mill grease papered abandoned factory windows. _Sticking to the tired old classics, I see. Has no one any imagination anymore?_ “Aw, c’mon, I’m not that old,” he mumbled. “Thirty’s about prime, isn’t it?” He heard footsteps, made out one of the silhouettes approaching. “Old enough to know better, young enough to still have fun. ’sides, it’s not the years, y’know: it’s the mileage.”

“God, you’re just as annoying as I’ve heard,” the guy said. He was the one who, if his distaste was any indication, had never had opportunity to go to college. “Always with some stupid quip. One of these days you’re really going to annoy someone and he’s gonna say ‘to hell with it’ and shoot you.”

Dean waited for his heart to start pounding, his face to start sweating, _some_ reaction, and wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that his instinctual response seemed to remain at _be annoying_. “So are you ‘someone’?” Up close, the guy was a mess: unwashed hair that needed to be cut, at least a week’s scraggly growth on his face, at least two layers of worn out clothes, grease stained and screaming _white trash._

Dean thought of where he’d last seen lack of personal hygiene combined with neglected clothing and suddenly his blood ran cold.

The guy chuckled low in his throat. It was an ugly sound. “Oh, you have no idea how much I want to be right now. But we’re a little more interested in your brother.”

* * *

An hour passed and three more people showed up, a man, a teenage boy, and a woman. From the way they interacted Dean guessed they were a family, but as they took apart, cleaned, and reassembled two shotguns and a rifle, he wondered if their motto was _the family that slays together stays together_. The teenage boy in particular was creepy. He acted so excited to be here, to be a part of trapping and capturing Sam Winchester.

If they hadn’t swapped out ropes for handcuffs, Dean was pretty sure he would have been free by now. He was furious enough to burn right through rope.

They stayed too far away for him to hear what they were talking about other than stray words. “ _Apocalypse_ ” he heard once, and “ _abomination._ ” They rarely referred to Sam by name, or at least he assumed that they were talking about Sam when they said “the freak” since they spoke his name with the same disgust. Periodically they’d glance over, like they were worried he’d worked himself out of the handcuffs sans key/paperclip/lock picks and free hand.

He lost track of time, the air in the warehouse getting hotter and more close as the afternoon wore on. They didn’t offer him water, and he didn’t waste his breath asking. Sweat dripped down his back and face, irritating and somewhat alarming.

The glowing windows were just starting to dim when the woman sauntered over, bottle of water in one hand and a sawed-off in the other. “Thirsty?” she asked, and he honestly couldn’t tell if she was taunting or not, so he said nothing. “No? You sure?”

“If I say yes,” he said hoarsely, “you just gonna drink it in front of me?”

She looked almost offended. “Dean.” She unscrewed the cap and brought it to his lips. He hesitated, then figured he had nothing to lose and opened his mouth. It was slightly alarming how much of an expert she was, tipping the bottle at the right angle so he could drink the whole thing without stopping, which she allowed him to do. “We don’t blame you, you know.”

He panted a moment, feeling significantly less parched, and wondering how much of this conversation he was going to understand. “You have the advantage on me, Mrs.…?”

“Call me Caroline.” Caroline had dyed red hair that was dark brown and silver at the roots, weathered skin, and wore no makeup and no jewelry except for a strange metal symbol on a leather cord around her neck. She looked to be in the middle of that nebulous age range where she could get away with calling people ‘hon’ but probably no one would get away unscathed after calling her ‘ma’am.’

“Great. First name basis. Let me put this succinctly, Caroline: I have no idea what you do or what you want with my brother, but let me just say, if you hurt him, I will kill you.”

Caroline looked unnerved. “You don’t even work together anymore and you…” She shook her head. “That’s some bond you boys got going. Is it true you’re psychic?”

Dean blinked. “Are you--? You’re out of your mind. Well, that explains a lot.”

“I’m not insane, Dean, and I don’t think you are either. Your brother, well…” She clicked her tongue.

He squirmed against the handcuffs. “Sam’s not insane!”

Caroline shook her head again. “This isn’t about Sam being insane, Dean. This is about Sam being stopped. Once and for all.”

Dean froze, staring at her. His brain was running in circles, trying to connect the dots, but Sam was so effective at being vague that he still didn’t have so much as a semi-educated guess what his brother did for a living. He couldn’t see Sam as a spy, not with his emotions running so close to the surface, and that went double for assassin. Thus far he’d blanked on another profession that could fit under ‘a cult.’ And now these people, these five people against Sam’s one, were going to kill Sam.

_Kill_ Sam. He felt sick and light-headed. His leg had been throbbing all day and now it felt swollen in the heat, pressing against the cast.

Caroline half-smiled sympathetically and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Once he’s gone, we’ll send you after him quick and painless.” The smile became sardonic. “ _We_ want to live, after all.”

Dean considered throwing up.

* * *

“So is this what you do?”

The conversation stopped and one of the guys called back, “What?”

Dean licked his lips and repeated, “Is this what you do? Hunt people down?” He sensed the silence was incredulous. “Honestly, I have no idea what you have against my brother--”

“He’s an abomination,” the second kidnapper said, voice dripping with disgust.

Dean couldn’t keep back an incredulous laugh. “Sorry, he’s a _what?_ ”

“We’ve heard the stories. Everyone’s heard the stories.” The second kidnapper walked over, his square, ugly face scarred and tight with anger, rifle leaning over one shoulder. He spat on the floor. “Allied himself with a demon, drank its filthy blood-- Rumor is he was lookin’ to open the Cage, let the Devil himself out of Hell. Maybe he was plannin’ to ally himself with him. Maybe he was plannin’ to kill him and climb onto that unholy throne himself. I don’t know and frankly I don’t care. All’s I know for sure is, he was stabbed to death two years ago and he’s still walkin’ around. That ain’t natural, and we put down things that ain’t natural.”

Dean swallowed another laugh. “What the hell are you on? Demons? The devil? Are you _serious?_ ”

The kidnapper paused and tilted his head. “You know, I wouldn’t have believed it, but-- You really don’t know what your brother does, do you? Or what he _used_ to do. God knows what he does now.”

Dean shifted in the chair. _Of all the ways to find out…_ “No. I don’t. He didn’t tell me. He said I’d be safer if I didn’t know.”

They chuckled wryly as a group. “Fat lot of good it did you,” Caroline’s significant other said.

“Still,” Caroline said uncertainly, “it’s almost sweet.”

“ _Sweet_ and _Sam Winchester_ don’t belong together in the same sentence,” the man retorted, almost a rebuke. “He’s a monster. We hunt monsters.”

“You keep saying shit like that,” Dean said, anger heating up in the pit of his stomach. “Monster, abomination, demons, the devil-- You’re all insane.”

“No, not insane.” The kidnapper came closer and pulled up the side of his dirty green-and-white plaid shirt. There were scars across his side, long and wide and ugly. “Know anything natural with claws that big?” He dropped the hem and pushed up a sleeve, showing where enormous puncture wounds arced around his forearm. “How about teeth? Huh?” Dean could only stare. “Those’re from a werewolf.”

“There’s no such thing,” Dean said numbly.

The kidnapper leered and rolled his sleeve back down. “You’d sure love to think so, wouldn’t you? Sorry, buddy: ghosts, werewolves, demons-- they all exist, and most of ’em wanna kill you, eat you, or both. That’s not the half of it, either. If you’ve heard a story about it, it probably exists somewhere, and someone’s huntin’ it. That’s what you and your brother and your daddy did, til your daddy dropped dead and it was just the two of you.” He sneered. “The Winchester brothers. Most famous supernatural hunters in the States. D’you have any idea how much we hear about you two? Then we hear that _you’ve_ dropped dead and it’s just Sammy, all by his lonesome.”

“It’s Sam.”

He spat on the floor again. “I look like I give a shit? But we wondered, y’know, because it isn’t the first time you’ve pulled a disappearing act, and then somebody was trawlin’ around Phoenix and who does he see on campus--”

Outside, a just-lit streetlight went dark with a loud _pop_. Then another. And another.

“Shit, he’s here,” Caroline said softly, her voice almost reverent. She chambered her shotgun, her son following suit. Her man felt at his pockets before taking a firmer grasp on his rifle. The first kidnapper pulled a wicked-looking knife out of a sheath on his belt and twirled it in his fingers before picking up a sawed-off shotgun in the other hand.

The second kidnapper yanked off the kerchief from around his neck and tied it around Dean’s mouth before he could say anything. “Stay quiet,” he hissed, dropping his rifle into his hands and cocking it. He rejoined the others; they conferred in whispers before splitting up, the first kidnapper and Caroline’s significant other disappearing behind Dean, Caroline and her son heading into the shadowy area to his left, and the second kidnapper going right.

Dean gagged. The kerchief tasted like sweat and gunpowder, and for the first time he really felt afraid, fear coursing down his spine like cold water. It was not, he noted with some surprise, fear for himself, but for Sam, who was presumably the ‘he’ spoken of and was walking into a trap.

Five against one. Monsters. Demons. Sam.

_I can't do it alone._

_I guess you could call it a cult. In ’til you die._

_If you’ve heard a story about it, it probably exists somewhere, and someone’s huntin’ it._

Ghosts, demons, God only knew what else was out there.

_If you start poking around, there are people who might recognize you and then God only knows what will happen._

_Then we hear that_ you’ve _dropped dead and it’s just Sammy, all by his lonesome, and then somebody was trawlin’ around Phoenix and who does he see on campus--_

_I just never did this alone before, okay? Did what?_

_I've tried, okay, I've_ tried _to get out and it doesn't_ work.

_Forget it. It’s a catch-22. You’d have to know what wasn’t safe to appreciate what I’m doing._

_OH MY GOD you are NOT going to tell me you believe in this crap? Someone does._

Tattoos. Cults. Fear, hatred, gunpowder and sweat.

_Learn to shoot-- you were really good before, and I bet your muscle memory will serve you well here._

A gunshot, echoing in the warehouse. A wordless, high-pitched scream cut off with a second gunshot. Silence. Soft footsteps, then more silence. Somewhere an empty cardboard box skidded along the floor. Dean could hear someone panting behind him, breathing out curse words and “c’mon, c’mon.”

A harsh scratching sound and something too bright to look at clattered to a halt right in front of Dean. He closed his eyes reflexively, heard the person behind him gasp in pain, shout “George, George, he threw a flare, I can’t see--”

Another gunshot, much closer. Behind him the second kidnapper shrieked, fired his shotgun, the sound like a physical blow. Pellets rattled against the floor. Dean flinched, unable to move, his ears ringing, his head pounding. A wet thud cut short the pained cries, replacing them with a horrible, gasping gurgling that stopped after a few seconds.

Silence except for the hissing flare and metallic clicking sounds from somewhere off to Dean’s left that he identified after a moment as a handgun being reloaded. Quiet footsteps then, coming towards him, very close. Dean shuddered, wondering if he was about to feel a cold, round circle against his temple, or maybe nothing at all.

Instead, he heard a soft impact and suddenly the light dimmed, the flare skittering behind him. Warm fingers, shaking a little, pulled the kerchief away from his face and for a terrifying moment a long, cold edge slid vertically against his cheek. A rough tug, the sound of fabric being cut, and the kerchief’s pressure disappeared. “Got three,” Sam said quietly, business-like. “How many others?”

Dean felt like he was smothering. He opened his eyes but in the darkness after the flare couldn’t see anything. “Two.”

“Okay. Sit tight.” Quiet footsteps left before he could say _wait, what’s going on, Sam, is it true--_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hark, more violence! And the worst of the language.

**Silence.** Dean shifted uneasily. The flare hissed behind him, and as his eyes adjusted he could see the stark shadow it cast of himself, chained to a chair. A long seam in the concrete stretched from the front of the warehouse to, presumably, the back of it, and a slow stream of bright red liquid flowed past him in it. Dean smelled iron and phosphorus and other things he didn’t want to think about. He felt sick.

Sudden running footsteps startled him. The first kidnapper careered into sight, then skidded to a halt as he stared behind Dean. Dean noted his expression of mixed horror, terror, and a certain amount of sickened acceptance and decided not to look. The kidnapper made eye contact for a moment, a fleeting look of respect and understanding, then turned and ran for the door. Another gunshot echoed and the kidnapper sprawled to the concrete. Sam emerged from behind some crates on Dean’s right and crossed the open ground-- calm, unflinching, as if this was routine --and knelt next to the body, putting two fingers against his neck.

Dean heard the scrape of a shoe behind him and something small pressed between his shoulder blades. His heart jumped like it was trying to escape by punching a hole through his solar plexus.

Sam turned and rose to his feet, face cold and impassive. His gun dangled from his right hand. He stood, tall and unmoving, the light from the flare casting stark shadows on his face. He looked almost alien. Dean swallowed hard, thinking about five against one, freak, abomination, monster, an ugly scar at the base of Sam’s spine, _allied himself with a demon, drank its filthy blood, stabbed to death two years ago, ain’t natural, we put down things that ain’t natural--_

“Drop the gun,” said a voice behind him, shaky, breath coming in huffs.

The gun dropped from Sam’s fingers and clattered to the concrete.

“Put your hands up.”

Sam complied smoothly, easily. “Why don’t you just shoot me?” His voice was quiet and sardonic, calm, cool, terrifying. “I mean, that was the plan, right? Kidnap my brother, pull me out of hiding, shoot on sight?” He nodded at the floor behind Dean. “How’s that working out for you, George?” He half-smiled. Dean’s heart jumped again.

“I’ll shoot him!” George threatened, voice rising hysterically.

Sam blinked, the half-smile freezing. “Sure, George,” he said, voice still quiet and calm, but now edged with cold steel. “But after you do that, can you shoot me before I pick up my gun and shoot you? Because I swear to you--” His voice shook now, with fear or anger Dean couldn’t tell, perhaps a mix of both. “--you shoot my brother and you will _wish_ I went for a headshot.” In the light from the guttering flare Sam looked like a psychopath, face mostly expressionless but twitching, hands raised not in surrender but in a complacency that could disappear in the blink of an eye, all 6’something of him tense and waiting.

The pressure between Dean’s shoulder blades shook, then was removed. Dean was trying to remember how to breathe when the barrel of a rifle appeared practically over his shoulder, aiming unsteadily at Sam.

A bomb going off in the room couldn’t have been louder. The minor explosion as the bullet broke the sound barrier felt like a two-by-four hitting the side of Dean’s head. Sam dropped like a load of bricks and lay still. Dean couldn’t breathe. Smoke in the air made his eyes water. He blinked away the tears, inhaled roughly, then exhaled. Sam wasn’t moving. He couldn’t breathe again.

Faintly, he heard disbelieving laughter. “Holy shit,” George said, his voice sounding like it came from a great distance. “Holy shit.” He half-staggered over to Sam’s motionless body, knelt--

Sam’s eyes opened, his right hand pulled a knife from his belt, and then George was sitting back on his heels, fingers plucking at the steel embedded in his throat. Blood poured down his neck to soak into his shirt and he looked surprised as he slowly fell sideways. He made a few gurgling sounds, twitched, then his fingers went still as his mouth went slack.

Dean couldn’t hear out of his left ear, but his right ear worked well enough that he heard Sam’s winded and almost disgusted, “Ever heard of a bulletproof vest, dumbass?”

* * *

Sam acted very calm as he unlocked the handcuffs with the lockpicks he pulled out of a pocket. Once one wrist was free Dean grabbed at his brother’s hand and waited for Sam to look at him. The flare was almost dead and with the streetlights shot out he could barely make out Sam’s face, forget about expression. “What the hell was that,” Dean asked, and then coughed.

“Later.” Sam’s voice trembled, giving him away. His fingers shook for a moment before he pulled free to unlock the other sets of handcuffs. Silence fell again, only broken by the last dying hisses of the flare and Sam’s uneven panting.

“Won’t the police be coming?”

“Sure, once I call them.” Dean’s other wrist came free and Sam ducked to unlock his ankles. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“How did you know where I was?”

Sam’s hands slowed, then resumed. “I… There’s a… I put a GPS tracker in your shoe.”

“You _what?_ ”

Sam pulled another cuff apart with more vehemence than necessary. “The night I stayed over, I did get up at eight, but I didn’t go for a run. I did it just in case this happened,” he clarified, sounding halfway between defensive and embarrassed. “I wasn’t tracking your every move, Dean. But then you didn’t answer your phone, even after I’d waited for the couple hours it would take to recharge, and-- well, you made the news, you know. Injured straight-A college student disappears between classes. Your face and name plastered everywhere.” The last cuff squealed in protest as he yanked it apart. “Now everyone knows you’re alive.” He straightened, rummaged in his pockets, and pulled out a flashlight which he clicked on. The circle of light illuminated the concrete between their feet, increasing the ambient light so that crates and cardboard boxes loomed out of the dark. Sam’s face was still in strong shadow, making it impossible to read his expression. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

“Isn’t that your knife in--?” Dean pointed behind, still not looking.

Sam smiled, white teeth gleaming. “No. Good thinking, but no. That was the woman’s.”

“Caroline.” Dean imagined her laying in the dark, bloody hole in her head. It was disturbing how easily it came to mind. “Her name was Caroline.”

Sam’s smile had disappeared. “C’mon.” He turned on his heel and headed for the side door that the first kidnapper had been making for when Sam shot him. He paused next to George, shining the light on his face, then knelt and pulled the knife back out of his neck with a grunt.

The almost professional manner of it turned out to be the straw that broke the camel’s back: Dean, at the edge of nausea for several hours, finally threw up. Sam was at his elbow in a moment, hovering but not touching. When his stomach was empty (or, well, emptier), Dean spat and straightened slowly, dizzy.

“There’s water in the car,” Sam said quietly. “C’mon.”

Dean limped after him without looking back.

* * *

“What did they tell you?”

Outside the car, the half moon cast an indifferent light over the weeds surrounding them in the abandoned lot. The wind whistled through the partially open windows. Crickets chirped. Dean swallowed a mouthful of beer and tried to organize his thoughts. “A lot of stuff,” he said finally. “About demons, and werewolves, and…” He laughed once, then took another pull from the bottle. “I don’t think I’m drunk enough to have this conversation.”

Sam exhaled for several seconds, then leaned his forehead on his hands against the steering wheel of the Impala. “ _Shit._ ” He slammed a palm against the wheel, then curled his fingers around it. Had the light been better, Dean was sure he’d see his knuckles whiten. “That was-- _Shit._ ”

“It explains a lot,” Dean offered. “The whole… assassin-aura, the weird matching tattoos, that, uh…” He swallowed hard. “Hey, the guy said you… died. Are zombies a thing too?” His attempt at a light-hearted tone failed.

“Yes, but I’m not a zombie. They don’t work the same as in the movies, either.” Sam’s voice was muffled against his hands. “It’s… complicated. And irrelevant. I’m human.”

“So the scar--?”

“I died,” Sam said flatly. He sighed, sat back and rubbed his face with his hands. “God. I didn’t want-- Shit. Damn it all.” He was silent for a long moment. “I got stabbed,” he said finally. It sounded like he was forcing every word. “I died. You… God. You made a deal with a demon and brought me back.”

The phrases “a deal with a demon” and “brought me back” came from him so naturally that Dean shivered. “So demons are real.”

“Unfortunately. Those hunters were gunning for me, right? Did they tell you about the…” Sam’s voice went brittle and then faded.

“Yeah, they were. They called you an… abomination.” Dean looked at the profile of the man sitting next to him, hair cut badly, subdued and angry,  smelling like blood and gunpowder, and yet when he tried to associate the word ‘abomination’ with him, it just didn’t work. “Other crap, too. They were pretty scared of you, I guess.”

Sam sniffed derisively and shook his head. “A year and a half ago, there might’ve been some basis to that. I’ve been slipping lately.”

Dean hesitated, then began, “They mentioned demon blood…?” Sam stiffened, teeth clicking audibly as his jaw clenched. Dean backpedaled. “Hey man, we don’t have to talk about all of this now. It’s late. You probably need some sleep…”

“It’s like heroin.” Sam’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I guess-- well, no, not like heroin. Demon blood makes you stronger, lets you do things you couldn’t otherwise, but it’s addictive. I was… When I… Our… _Shit._ ” He dropped his head back onto his hands. “Our lives are so fucked up.”

Dean hesitated again, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then tell me tomorrow. Or the day after. But no letters this time, or I’ll hunt you-- uh, shit.”

Sam snickered weakly. “Don’t worry about it. Inappropriate humor is kind of our thing.” He sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I need to sleep. Any good motels around here? And by good I mean cheap. I’m not picky.”

“Yeah, I think I know where one is.” Dean climbed out of the car, ignoring Sam’s startled “Where are--?” and came around to the driver’s side. “Scoot over. You’re too tired to drive.”

“I’m--” Sam sighed again and moved over. “I’m too tired to argue, anyway.”

He was asleep in ten minutes.

* * *

Dean unlocked the door, balancing the bag of doughnuts on top of the coffee cups, and opened it to see a mussed, confused Sam sitting up. “Hng?”

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Dean said cheerfully. “Coffee?” The cheer was a little forced, especially now that he could get a good look at Sam.

The cut across his face was healed but still pink, there were dark half-circles under his eyes despite sleeping for several hours, and his ragged haircut looked worse in sunlight. “Hwa tummasit?” He rubbed his face and Dean frowned at the swollen knuckles and numerous little cuts all over the back of Sam’s right hand.

“What’d you do to your hand?”

“Huh?” Sam looked at it for a long moment. “Oh. Hyeah. Brakka winda.”

“And in English?”

Sam yawned, then stretched. Joints popped and cracked and Dean winced. “Broke a window,” Sam repeated, enunciating carefully. “What time is it?”

“It’s just after eight.”

“Oh.” Sam rubbed his eyes, blinked twice at nothing, then looked up with a slight frown. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“Nope.” Dean offered a cup. “Coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Sam downed what looked like half the cup in one breath. “Mm, good stuff.”

“Damn, should have grabbed you another.”

Sam waved it off. “I’ll get more later.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and frowned down at his jeans, which were filthy. “Wow. The maid is gonna be _pissed._ ”

“She works in a skeevy motel-- I’m sure she’s cleaned worse. Anyway, I took off your shoes.”

“Decent of you.” Sam combed his hair with his fingers and grimaced. “God, why is it whenever I see you I needed a shower like two days ago?”

Dean gestured toward the bathroom as he sank down onto the other bed. “I took a shower last night-- decent water pressure, though you’ve got to turn the handle really far to the left to get to the hot water. But first--” He opened the bag and offered it. “Hungry?” Sam grabbed the whole bag and shoved half a doughnut into his mouth. He said something Dean figured was ‘famished’ but it sounded more like ‘fammah.’ “Dude, did no one ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”

Sam looked up at him, clearly wanting to say something, but he had to swallow three times before he could be understood. Dean waited for a smartass comment but all Sam said was, “Thanks.”

Dean shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

Sam finished the doughnut in two bites, pulled another out of the bag, then handed it back. He jerked a thumb at the bathroom, pushed about a third of the doughnut into his mouth, then set it down next to his almost empty coffee cup to strip off his shirt.

Sam had always been careful before not to undress in front of Dean, and what Dean had taken for privacy he now realized was just another wall Sam had put up between them. Scars of every age and description told a battered history all over his chest and stomach, accented by bruises and healing cuts. He had the same flaming pentagram tattoo as Dean, and in the same place. When he turned toward the bathroom, Dean saw his back was just as scarred and bruised, but the large scar at the base of his spine took the cake. “Damn, dude. And I don’t look that bad because…?”

Sam peeled off his dirty jeans and swallowed what was in his mouth. “It’s a long story.” He hesitated in the doorway. “I guess I can tell you now. After I shower.”

“Okay.” Dean settled back on his bed, raising his casted leg with a wince. “We’ve got all morning, anyway.” He turned on the TV. “I’ll be waiting.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanations, decisions, and the Bobby cameo.

**“We were in New Mexico.** We’d just hunted down this witch and when we got back to the motel… I don’t know, we just started fighting about nothing.” Sam sighed. “It was stupid. We were both exhausted, adrenaline was wearing off, and suddenly we were just fighting. I left to cool off. When I got back…” He cleared his throat. “When I got back, the witch I’d _thought_ was dead was very alive and very pissed. She had you pinned to the floor, almost smothered. She was… She had this small glass bottle in her hand, glowing blue, and she was just putting the cap in it when I came in. I went after her but she…” He waved a hand. “And I hit the corner of a wall, hard. When I came to, you were breathing but still out.” He picked at a fingernail. “I thought… maybe you weren’t going to wake up. And then you did, and you stared at me and said ‘who the hell are you?’”

Dean frowned. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were pretty out of it. That whole night and the next day you kept falling asleep mid-sentence and then waking up and staring at me. ‘Who the hell are you?’ I was beat, concussed, kind of out of it myself. I called Bobby but he was backup for some other hunter and couldn’t come. And I kept trying to figure out how I was going to explain everything, especially if you couldn’t stay awake for more than five minutes at a time, and then I started wondering… Was it just going to stay like this? Where you couldn’t hold on to any memory at all? And if you were, what was I going to do?” Sam stared down at the dirty motel carpet between his bare feet. “I was flipping out, man,” he admitted quietly. “I’m glad you don’t remember.”

Dean waited a moment, feeling the heaviness of the pause, then prompted, “What then?”

“Well, then you started staying awake for longer periods of time, but you still didn’t remember anything.” Sam stood and rubbed his fingers together, examining the upper corners of the room like he was looking for cue cards. “We were right on the border of Arizona, and… I don’t know, man, I don’t know where the idea came from but once it came it wouldn’t go away, this idea that one of us could have a normal life. Arizona’s pretty damn quiet. I don’t know why but it is, and I thought, well, of all the places to start fresh, why not somewhere that doesn’t have poltergeists in every attic?”

“So you dropped me off at the side of the road? That’s cold, man.”

Sam chuckled humorlessly. “I explained everything; you just didn’t remember it five minutes later. Hell, you were about ready to jump out of the car anyway-- ‘Who the hell are you and where are we going?’” He almost wiped his hands on his jeans, then thought better of it, and wandered over to a window to pull aside the curtain. “Wow. Dark out. That took a little longer than I thought it would. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Dean leaned over his raised knees and rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You, uh, you mentioned Jo and… Helen?”

“Ellen.”

“Right, Ellen. But you said before you only had Uncle Bobby to talk to.”

“Yeah, well…” Sam bit his lower lip. “She-- Ellen, that is --didn’t like this idea. The not-telling-you idea. She thought it would end badly. I mean, Bobby thought so too, but he…” He grimaced. “I guess he was probably just humoring me.”

Dean shrugged. “Could’ve ended worse.”

“That’s pretty generous. This could’ve gone sideways in so many ways.”

“Stop it, okay? You were doing your best.”

“And now what? You know… well, not everything, but-- enough.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, it was hard for me at Stanford, knowing what I knew. It’s gotten worse since then. In the world, I mean. Hell, we didn’t run into demons until five years ago.”

“There’s an obvious answer.” At Sam’s quizzical look, Dean gestured at the motel room around them. “We go back to hunting as a team.”

A multitude of emotions flashed over Sam’s face too fast to catalogue. “Dean…” he said finally, voice like broken glass, halfway between an exhale and an appeal.

“Sam, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re clearly not doing so hot by yourself. You’re twitchy, you still look like death warmed over… I may not remember all the stuff I used to know but that’s no reason I can’t relearn it. And don’t you dare use the word ‘normal’ again,” Dean added quickly, holding up a hand. “I do not want to hear it.”

“Dean--”

“C’mon, man.” He smiled and spread his arms. “Sounds like we never had ‘normal’ anyway, and we turned out all right. Maybe it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Anyway, to hear you tell it, the world’s going to Hell in a handbasket; you could use the help, right? And I am nothing if not a quick study.”

Sam blinked rapidly, shifted on his feet, then stilled. His shoulders dropped, the line between his eyes disappeared, and he threw back his head and _laughed_. He ran his hands through his too-short hair to clasp them at the back of his head, grinned, and nodded. “Okay,” he said, and he sounded about ten years younger than he had at any point previously. “Okay. We can do that. But not yet. You have much to learn, my young Padawan.”

Dean’s matching grin turned into a grimace. “Oh boy.”

“And we’re not hunting a damn thing until your leg’s out of the cast. Hold what you’ve got.” Sam left the room for a minute, then reappeared with a duffel bag which he dropped onto the bed and through which he rummaged. He tossed a clean outfit onto the bedspread before saying “Ah ha!” and pulling out an overstuffed leather book. His fingertips trailed down the front of it for a moment as he smiled. “Here, catch.” He tossed the book.

Dean caught it and opened it gingerly. Photos, drawings, and clippings were attached to worn pages covered in uneven writing and coffee stains. “The hell is this?”

“Dad’s journal. I think I mentioned it. It’s got all kinds of information in there on things he hunted, things he thought should be hunted, other hunters…”

“His handwriting is kind of awful.” Sam laughed again. “Is there a reason we didn’t rewrite this?”

Sam blinked. “I, uh… Well, it never occurred to me.” He frowned. “And there’s some inaccurate information in there, too. Shit. I didn’t really…” He rubbed the back of his neck and laughed softly. “I dunno, I guess… I dunno. Maybe because it’s… _Dad’s_ , you know?”

Dean considered. “Yeah, I guess I can see that.”

“Shit. Maybe we should.” Sam peeled off his t-shirt and jeans, then pulled on the clean ones. “Maybe that’s something you can work on while we’re at Bobby’s.”

Dean looked up. “We going there?”

“Yeah, I mean, we’ve stayed there before. I’m sure he’ll be up for it.” Sam picked the jeans back up and emptied the pockets, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call him, see if--”

“Uh, Sam? Having paid for the damn hotel room, can we _sleep_ in the damn hotel room?”

Sam paused, looking chagrined. “Sorry, I’m kind of…” He laughed again. “Ready to _go_ , you know?”

“Yeah.” Dean smiled. “I can see that, too.”

* * *

Dean closed the motel door and paused. Sam was standing in front of the open trunk, chewing his lower lip. “What? Something wrong?”

“Huh? Oh, no, I just… uh… Was there, uh, stuff you wanted?”

Dean looked at him blankly. “Stuff?”

“Yeah, you know, clothes, tchotchkes-- stuff.”

He had to think about it. “Nope.”

Sam blinked. “Really?”

“You still got my clothes from before, right? I mean, you didn’t, like, torch them or anything?”

“No, why would--”

“Then we’re good.”

“Nothing? Really?” Sam smirked suddenly. “You don’t want that ceramic cat--”

“Get in the car.”

* * *

“Dude.” No response. “ _Dude_. This is killing me.”

Sam slapped his hand away from the dial. “Don’t. Touch. The radio.”

“ _Saaam_ … How can you stand this?”

“It’s not that bad. Anyway, I had to put up with _your_ music for years.”

“I don’t remember doing that-- why must you punish me for it?”

“This isn’t that bad!” Sam’s irritated frown smoothed out into a smirk. “House rules, Dean. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Dean slumped in his seat. “God, that’s something I used to say, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“ _Dammit._ ”

* * *

Dean humphed loud enough that Sam looked up from his lunch. “ _What?_ ” The joy in the back of his eyes was at complete odds with his annoyed tone.

“I’m thinking a little hiatus until my cast comes off is going to be good for both of us.” Dean shook his fork meaningfully. “You need to eat more. And your hair needs to grow out, too. You look ridiculous.”

Sam shook his head, trying and failing to conceal a smile. “You are still such a jerk.”

“Don’t be a bitch.” Sam looked up so quickly Dean jumped. “What? What is it?”

Sam laughed, smiled, looked away. “Ah, nothing.”

* * *

Between traffic, detours, meals, and sleeping, Sam shook Dean’s shoulder and stage-whispered, “Dean, we’re here,” at about three in the morning.

Dean cracked an eyelid, took in rusted cars and hubcaps rigged to the side of a house, and found it hard to summon the enthusiasm he’d felt earlier. “I hope the beds are comfortable.”

“They are.” Sam groaned as he climbed out. “Hell, I’d take a wooden floor after twenty hours in that car.” He stretched, shoulders popping, then opened the trunk and pulled out his duffel bag. “C’mon.”

Dean half-fell out of the car, his leg making its status as ‘broken and not happy about it’ loudly known. “Ow, dammit. Are we being quiet?”

Sam chuckled. “He’d probably shoot us if we tried to be quiet. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t come out with a shotgun-- you always kept the Impala purring.”

“You son of a bitch! So you haven’t been taking care of my car?”

“I’ve been trying, man, but I’ve been a little busy--”

The front door opened right in front of Sam, startling both brothers. “The hell have you been?”

“ _Bobby._ ” Sam dropped his duffel and stepped forward, wrapping the older man in a tight hug.

“Le’me get a look atcha.” When they pulled back, Bobby frowned as he stared at Sam’s hair. “The hell did you do to your _hair?_ ”

Sam sighed. “I cut it.”

“With what, a Swiss army knife?”

“For God’s sake--” Sam turned to Dean and gestured. “Dean, this grouchy, over-critical--” Bobby slapped the back of Sam’s head. Sam grinned. “-- _hospitable_ , avuncular gentleman is Bobby.”

Dean smiled nervously. “Hey.”

“Oh, that’s not gonna cut it--” Bobby crossed the porch in two strides and pulled Dean into a bear hug. “How are you doing, son?”

Dean froze, then awkwardly hugged back. “I’m… all right, I guess.”

“Well.” Bobby released him, stepped back and looked him over head to toe. His eyes gleamed in the weak indirect light from indoors. “I guess under the circumstances…” He shook himself and gestured for them to go inside. “You boys must be exhausted. Beds’re all made up for you.”

“Thanks, Bobby. C’mon, Dean, I’ll show you.”

They were halfway up the stairs when Bobby said, “Hey Dean…”

Dean turned. “Yeah?”

Bobby looked up at him appraisingly. “Why’re you here?”

“What?”

“Hunting, I mean. Why are you hunting? Sam’s probably told you a hundred, hell maybe a thousand times that this life…” He chuckled dryly. “It ain’t much of a life. So why’d you choose it?”

Dean thought about it, then shrugged. “Several reasons, really. Saving the world by shooting things sounds pretty fun. Cool scars, cool car, no societal expectations, flexible hours. Plus, y’know…” He nodded at Sam and grinned. “The pay is _fantastic._ ”

At the quizzical look he got, Sam muttered something about ‘poolsharking’ and ‘credit card fraud.’ Bobby laughed and Sam smiled and shrugged, like ‘what are you gonna do?’ “You know what, Sam?”

“What?”

Bobby looked between the two of them, a stupid grin on his face. “He’s adorable.”

Sam laughed, probably louder than he should have. Dean frowned. “Why do I get the feeling I’ve missed something?”

“You did,” Sam said between snickers. “I’ll explain tomorrow. C’mon, bedroom’s down this way.”

* * *

Sam dropped his duffel bag at the end of his bed with a deep sigh. “God, I’m so glad we’re here.” He kicked off his shoes and flopped down on top of the blankets. “I think I’m gonna sleep for the first week,” he mumbled through the pillow.

“Sounds good to me,” Dean said, taking off his own shoes and trying to decide if he was awake enough to get out of his clothes. Deciding he was not, he followed Sam’s example and just laid down on top of the apparently hand-stitched quilt. “I like him,” he said.

“Who, Bobby?”

“Yeah.”

Sam sniffed. “Good thing, too.”

Dean shifted, trying to make another decision quickly, before Sam fell asleep. “Hey, uh, Sam?”

“Mm?”

“I gotta ask, man, not that you’ll know any better than me-- hell, maybe you’ll be a worse judge.”

Sam turned his head so one half-open eye was over the pillow. “What is it?”

Dean sighed and rolled onto his side. “Is it weird that-- Look, for that year I was alone, I had a _hell_ of a time getting to sleep every night. I’d fall asleep for like, an hour, then wake up and lay awake for another hour, fall asleep…” He waved a hand. “Rinse and repeat.”

“Mm-hm?” Sam blinked at him, clearly struggling to stay awake.

“And then once I knew about you, I’d stay awake worrying about you. Sometimes for hours.”

Sam frowned. “Really?”

“Yeah, but ever since you told me about what’s out there… I dunno, man, I don’t get it but I sleep like a rock. Is that really weird?”

Sam smiled sleepily. “I dunno, man. You slept like a rock before. Maybe it’s normal for you?”

“Yeah.” Dean rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. He had a feeling in the pit of his stomach, almost like a sense of impending doom, but it wasn’t that. Excitement, maybe. Or something. “Okay. Normal.”

“G’night, Dean.”

“G’night, Sammy.”

Sam made an indignant sound before burrowing into his pillow again. Dean smiled and was asleep in under five minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this mess! A sequel and sort of inter-quel exist in the same universe as Portal 3: they're talked about frequently and we'd all go nuts if they were announced, but currently we're without much hope of it actually showing up. ::sigh:: I'm trying. It's not going well.
> 
> Anyway. I hope you enjoyed. Please let me know if you did.


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